


To Our Mutual Benefit

by Bunnywest



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Peter Hale, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Human, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Idiots in Love, Knotting, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Marriage of Convenience, Mating, Mpreg ( mentioned), Mutual Pining, Omega Stiles Stilinski, Omegas are second class citizens, Peter Has Feelings, Required mating, Rutting, Societal expectations, i wanna say slow burn but we all know I'm impatient, omega biology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-09
Updated: 2020-02-03
Packaged: 2021-01-25 20:49:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 76,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21362482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bunnywest/pseuds/Bunnywest
Summary: “You’re not expecting to find love’s young dream here, surely?” Peter indicates the room full of people, none of whom have given Stiles a second glance.“I’m not expecting love’s young dream at all, Mayor Hale. I don’t fit the stereotype."
Relationships: Deucalion (Teen Wolf)/Original Character(s), Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 2034
Kudos: 3432





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Do I know how long this will be? No.  
Is it finished? No.  
Did that stop me from posting?  
Also no.
> 
> I guess we can enjoy the wild ride through my brain together?

Stiles stands there, arms spread, and waits for his dad’s verdict. John looks him up and down and nods. “You look nice, kiddo.” He pauses. “You don’t have to go, you know that.”

Stiles tugs at the knot of his tie. “In an ideal world, sure. I could meet someone in my own time. But it’s election year, and I’ve heard what people are saying, dad_. Sheriff’s kid still not mated and he’s nearly twenty? Maybe the sheriff didn’t raise him right. maybe he’s not fit for the job.” _Stiles lets out a sigh. “You’ve already bucked the trend by not marrying me off the day I turned sixteen. I won’t cost you the election. I’ll go to the meat market, play nice, pretend I’m a nice, meek little omega, and hook some poor sucker, just you watch.”

The corners of John’s mouth twitch up. “It’s called a meet and greet, Stiles.”

Stiles shrugs. “Whatever.”

“Still,” John persists. “I don’t want you to feel forced.”

Stiles bites his lip. “Honestly dad? Maybe I’d like to meet someone. And unless you were planning on going old school and arranging a partnership for me, if I want to meet an alpha going to the mixers is my only option. And this way, at least I get to have some say in who I’m getting mated to.”

John leans over, brushes a piece of imaginary lint off Stiles’s shoulder and lets his hand linger, squeezing softly. “I know it’s not ideal, son, and I’m proud of you for making the effort. But I don’t want you taking just any offer, okay?”

Stiles leans into the touch, his omega side basking in his father’s approval. “I won’t. But I’ll be seen to be looking for a mate, and that can’t hurt your campaign, right? I mean, I even wore decent shoes.” He glances down at his feet where his beloved converse have been replaced by black dress shoes. Stiles hates them already, knows his feet will ache within the hour, but they match the suit he’s wearing, at least.

He wasn’t lying – he’s not doing this just for his dad. He’s two weeks away from his twentieth birthday, where society deems that he shouldn’t be single, and he’s lonely. Most of his friends are either mated or promised, but Stiles isn’t a typical omega. He’s too tall, too loud, and anything but submissive. The alphas he’s met have taken one look at him and walked right on by. He likes to pretend he’s not affected by the casual rejection, but part of him wonders if there’ll ever be someone who will put up with his bullshit.

As though he can read his thoughts, his father lifts Stiles’s chin and gives a gentle smile. “You’re a good kid, and I’m sure there’ll be someone out there who appreciates your quirks.”

“Quirks, right. Let’s call them that.” 

“Quirks,” John repeats. “The ones you inherited from your mother, who I fell in love with.”

“You didn’t even know Mom,” Stiles protests mildly. “It was an arranged match.”

“Doesn’t mean it wasn’t a good match,” his father insists.

Stiles can’t argue with that, knows his parents were devoted to each other. He can only hope that he’ll find someone who looks at him the way his dad still looks at the photos of his mom. “I guess,” he admits grudgingly. He glances at his watch. “I’d better go. Nobody likes a tardy omega.” _Or a mouthy omega, or a bossy omega, or a messy omega, or a lazy omega, _he silently adds. The list of things he’s not meant to be is exhausting, honestly. No wonder he’s still single.

John nods. “I’ll get the keys. Text me when you’re ready to come home.” It would be unseemly for Stiles to drive himself after dark to a social event. Heaven forbid, he thinks wryly. He might run wild in the all -night grocery.

* * *

Peter Hale has exactly zero interest in acquiring a mate.

Unfortunately, if he wants to keep his position as Mayor, he’s going to have to do just that. If it was up to him, he’d stick with his habit of occasional discreet liaisons with willing betas, but it’s election year, he’s heard the mutterings about his single status, and bribery can only accomplish so much in a town as conservative as Beacon Hills.

So he pats down the front of his suit to make sure it’s sitting just so, smooths a stray hair into place, and prepares to go to the monthly meet and greet in the hope of finding someone tolerable that he can at least pretend to court.

His appearance at the mixer causes something of a stir, which he can’t deny he finds flattering. He knows he’s handsome, has had more than one omega try and insinuate their way into his life, so he’s prepared for the flurry of interest, the small crowd that forms around him, offering him drinks and finger foods amid fluttering lashes and coy smiles. He accepts them all graciously, but his heart sinks a little. None of the omegas here interest him in the least, which he’d honestly expected, but he’d hoped at least one of them would have something to recommend them over the others. But no, they’re all perfect cookie cutter partners, trained in the right way to impress an Alpha. Utterly perfect, utterly boring.

Still, he’ll settle for one of them of it wins him the election. It’s not like he’s looking for romance anyway – he’s hoping for some sort of amicable business arrangement. What he really needs is an omega who’s as uninterested in the process as he is, someone that only wants to be mated for the extra freedoms it will offer them – permission to drive alone at night, to hold down employment, the right to travel and study and birth control – all things an alpha has to sign off on for their mate.

He draws away from the crowd and heads to the bar for something stronger to get him through the night. As he waits to be served, his attention’s drawn by a tall youth who’s leaning against the wall, hands in his pockets, gaze downcast. There’s something familiar about the pale skin and the upturned nose. He has to look twice to be sure, but – “Stiles?”

Stiles’s head whips up. “Mayor Hale?”

Peter smiles and lets his eyes run over the boy. The last time he saw Stiles he was fifteen, all elbows and opinions. In the five years since, the boy’s changed for the better. Peter casts a glance at Stiles’s nametag, sees the discreet omega symbol there. He’s surprised for all of half a second at that – he hadn’t realized the boy had presented, or if he’d heard, he’d paid it no mind. Now, he thinks maybe he should have paid closer attention.

Peter beckons Stiles over, noting as Stiles approaches that he’s tall for an omega, and less delicate than he appeared at first glance. “You come to these things often?”

Stiles shakes his head. “First one. I was hoping to meet someone the old-fashioned way, but it’s election year, you know. My dad has a reputation to uphold.” Stiles glances around. “As you can see, I’m flooded with offers.”

“Perhaps if you stopped hiding in the corner?” Peter suggests.

“What, and steal the limelight from those other poor souls? That hardly seems fair.” Stiles’s mouth twists into a tight smile, but Peter can tell he’s not really laughing.

“It’s my first time as well,” he offers. “Same thing – apparently you can’t hold a position of power in this town unless you’re a picture of domestic bliss. So here I am, trying to find someone willing to be my partner.”

Stiles snorts. “Sure. Like that’s going to be a problem for Beacon Hills’ most eligible bachelor. You could throw a dart blindfolded and hit someone who’d leap at the chance.”

“It’s been a while, but I’m fairly certain throwing sharp objects at a potential mate is frowned upon,” Peter says, smirking.

Stiles rolls his eyes before catching himself. “Sorry, you’re right,” he says quietly, head dipping as he gazes at his shoes, and something about the way his manner changes catches Peter’s interest.

He leans in and whispers, “Stiles, are you trying to be _agreeable_ right now?”

“Apparently that’s what Alphas like.” Stiles peers up from under long lashes, head still slightly bowed. “Am I pulling it off?”

“Not even slightly, I’m afraid.”

Stiles’s shoulders slump. “Dammit. I thought I had it down pat. I’ve been practicing in the mirror.”

“Best keep practicing,” Peter advises drily. Stiles doesn’t have an agreeable bone in his body, that much Peter can already tell, but at least he’s entertaining. And alluring somehow, in spite of - or perhaps because of - the fact he’s so far from typical. Peter orders his drink and eyes Stiles speculatively. “So, are you really just here for your father’s career?”

Stiles squirms under his scrutiny, but Peter waits him out. Finally, Stiles gives a tiny huff. “Only partly. I wouldn’t mind being mated. Apart from anything else, I’m sick of going through my heats alone. Plus, once I turn twenty, I get stuck in that no-man’s land where I can’t do anything without a mate’s permission, but my dad can’t sign off on stuff for me. If I want the freedom to do things like study, I need to find an Alpha who doesn’t mind me having a life.”

“But you’re not expecting to find love’s young dream here, surely?” Peter indicates the room full of people, none of whom have given Stiles a second glance.

“I’m not expecting love’s young dream at all, Mayor Hale. I don’t fit the stereotype. But I’m pretty close to my sell-by date, so I’m hoping for someone that at least likes me a little? And this is as good a place to start looking as any.” There’s something in Stiles’s resigned sigh that makes Peter ache for the boy.

“Call me Peter,” he says, hit with a desire to at least make Stiles feel better about his prospects, assure the boy that different isn’t bad. He’s about to suggest they find somewhere quieter to talk, intends to tell him that Peter, for one, would welcome some variety at this point, and he’s sure he isn’t the only one.

But then there’s an insistent tug at his elbow and the event organizer is right there, leading Peter off before he can object, babbling about how he simply _must_ meet her niece, she’s just his type. Peter throws Stiles an apologetic glance but the young man just shrugs and waggles his fingertips in farewell, a resigned smile on his face as if he’d expected nothing else.

The niece is painfully polite, sixteen, and overwhelmed. She’s quivering with nerves at being introduced to Peter, poor thing, so he’s at least polite to her, and when he finally manages to extract himself from the clutches of the aunt, Stiles is gone.

* * *

Stiles tries not to feel bitter when Peter’s dragged away to spend time with some tiny china doll of a girl who looks like a walking breathing advertisement for omega perfection and is probably right up Peter’s alley. It’s not like their conversation was going anywhere anyway. Peter was just being polite because he’s the Sheriff’s son.

Still, there’s nobody else exactly clamoring to talk to him, so Stiles gives it up as a bad job, texts his father and slips away while Peter’s deep in conversation. He slumps into the car gracelessly and pulls his shoes off, dropping them into the footwell and wiggling his toes. “That bad, huh?” his dad says.

Stiles gives a half-shrug. “It wasn’t terrible. It just wasn’t productive.”

“You didn’t meet _anyone?_” For all that his father protests that there’s no pressure, Stiles catches the note of disappointment.

“I didn’t say that. I talked to the mayor for a while,” he offers, just as they pull up at the stoplight.

His dad’s head swivels round sharply. “Peter was there?”

“Yep.”

“And he talked to you?”

Stiles shrugs again. “It wasn’t anything really. And then he got dragged off to meet little miss perfect match, and nobody else was interested so...” He raises his palms as if to say _here we are._

“Well, maybe next time,” his dad says. Stiles cringes inwardly at the thought of there having to be a next time, of going through that again.

They get home and Stiles peels off the suit and wanders back downstairs in just a pair of sweatpants, and they settle in to watch a movie. Stiles has seen it before so he’s half watching, half playing on his phone, when there’s a knock at the door.

It’s after ten at night, and he and his father give each other the same dismayed look – a knock on the sheriff’s door late at night is never good. The knocking’s more persistent now, and John yanks the door open.

It’s Peter.

Peter Hale is on their doorstep at ten o’clock at night, and Stiles is half naked. That’s not his immediate concern, though. His main worry is that he did or said something offensive and now Peter’s here to tell his father to get him under control. Stiles mentally replays their conversation and nothing leaps out at him, but past experience has taught him it’s quite possible he overstepped and just didn’t notice.

Peter doesn’t seem mad though. He’s smiling pleasantly enough as he says “John, any chance I can come in?”

He steps inside and gives Stiles a nod, and Stiles nods back before dashing upstairs and dragging a shirt on. He can feel himself blushing – it’s not that he’s ashamed of his body, he just wasn’t expecting it to be on display to the _mayor_.

He edges back downstairs and catches the tail end of his father saying " - not prepared to make that choice for Stiles, but I gotta admit, it sounds like a something that could be an all-round solution.”

“What could be a solution?” he asks, stepping into view.

Peter smiles and pats the couch next to him which, what? His dad gives a subtle nod, so Stiles goes, sitting just far enough away that it’s not quite rude, with no idea what to expect. Peter turns to face him and states bluntly, “I’d like to claim you as my mate.”

Stiles’s mouth drops open with shock, and he’s momentarily lost for words. He fish-mouths a couple of times before blurting out, ”You’re shitting me.”

“Stiles!” his dad hisses, but Peter just smirks.

“Sorry,” Stiles mutters, not sorry at all. “But this is a joke, right? What about little miss omega back there? I thought she was just your type?’”

Peter raises an eyebrow. “My type, as it turns out, is boys who need to be mated in order for their father to stay in office.”

“What?”

Peter looks halfway between amused and exasperated. “Keep up, Stiles. I need a mate, and I’m not interested in a sixteen-year-old who’s so terrified she’ll agree with everything I say, no matter what her aunt thinks. I’d prefer someone a little older who knows their own mind, someone like you.”

“You don’t even know me,” Stiles insists.

“I know enough. I know you need a mate to help keep your father in his job. I know, judging by tonight, that you fail spectacularly as a stereotypical omega who bows and scrapes, and you’d never be happy as Suzie Home-maker. Which in Beacon Hills means your mating prospects aren’t stellar. Lucky for you, I’m not interested in keeping you under my thumb.” Stiles perks up a little as Peter continues, ”I think you’d do quite nicely as my partner. I get re-elected, and your father keeps his job with my endorsement. It’s a win-win all round.”

Stiles’s mind is awhirl as he sorts through what Peter’s saying and tries to make sense of the offer.

Peter Hale, Beacon Hill’s most eligible bachelor, wants him as a mate.

He shakes his head to clear it, and Peter must misunderstand. “Before you’re so quick to refuse, let me make it clear that any and all privileges would be granted to you. This would be more of a mutually beneficial arrangement than anything romantic, but I think we’d get along well.”

“I wasn’t-“ Stiles stops short, and he gives Peter a keen look. “Wait. Did you say all privileges?”

“All privileges,” Peter replies, and there’s a twinkle in his eye, as if he’d been expecting this.

“Curfew?”

Peter shakes his head. “No curfew. Full clearance to be out at any time alone.”

“And my jeep? I could keep it?”

“I told you Stiles, all privileges.”

“What about college?” Stiles challenges, knowing this is where it will all fall apart.

Peter barely misses a beat. “Obviously it would have to be community college so you can live at home with me, but yes.”

It’s still more than Stiles was hoping for, and he has to stop for a second and absorb the fact that he might actually get to go to college, get a degree, something he always thought was off the table. It’s worth saying yes just for that. Still, he doesn’t want to give in too easily. “What about birth control? No point in going to college if you knock me up six months in.”

“Agreed,” Peter says easily, and Stiles suddenly gets the feeling he could demand monthly flights to Paris and Peter would say yes. And from what Stiles has heard, that’s not like Peter at _all._

“You’re awfully keen. What do you get out of this?” he asks, suddenly suspicious.

Peter puts a hand on Stiles’s forearm, and Stiles tries not to be distracted by the warmth as Peter looks him in the eye. “I’ll be honest. I’m sick of the pressure to find a mate, the pointed looks when I go out alone, the endless parade of eligible omegas, like I’m some prize to be won. So yes, the political advantage for me and your father is definitely a factor, but even without that you’re a good match, purely because you’re someone I think I could live with and not die of boredom. You’re at least slightly interesting.”

“Wow. Be still my beating heart - slightly interesting,” Stiles says, before he can help himself.

Peter though, just laughs and says, “That’s exactly what I’m talking about.” He pats Stiles’s forearm in what could be affection. “Tell me you’ll at least think about it?”

Stiles bites his lip. “Could we – do you think we could at least go out on a date and talk for more than ten minutes?”

“Of course. I’ll pick you up tomorrow night, and we can discuss the finer details.” Stiles can’t help but think that Peter makes it sound more like a contract negotiation than anything else, but then, he supposes it is. It’s still common for parents to choose their omega childrens’ mates, and Stiles knows he’s lucky he’s even getting a say – there was nothing to stop his dad and Peter reaching an agreement and presenting the mating to him as a fait accompli. Long romances, months of dating, and summer flings are the province of Alphas and betas – omegas don’t get that luxury.

Stiles already knows he won’t get a better offer. An attractive alpha who seems to like him and who he thinks he might like back, offering to mate him and give him his freedom?

It’s the best he can hope for.

* * *

Peter leaves the Stilinski house with a definite spring in his step. Stiles is going to agree, Peter just knows it, and as an added bonus he’d caught a glimpse of his mate-to-be shirtless, and it was utterly lovely.

Apart from their mating night, where Peter will claim Stiles to trigger the scent changes that will send out a clear _hands off_ signal to other alphas, Peter’s not expecting their relationship to be physical – he won’t be that kind of Alpha, won’t push for what’s not offered, doesn’t want to be like his father – but still. The view was nice.

He starts mentally planning. If he times this right, he can have the mating announcement in the papers for next week, and the ceremony can take place a month after that. He’s thinking a garden wedding – May’s warm enough for that. They’ll keep it intimate, but there’ll be plenty of pictures for press releases. Stiles will photograph like a dream, he can already tell.

He hadn’t been the least bit surprised that Stiles demanded he sign off on his freedoms, given that the sheriff’s raised him in a somewhat liberal household – if the sheriff was old-school, Stiles would have been mated and pregnant long before now. And Peter doesn’t have an issue with letting Stiles study and travel and live his life. He wasn’t lying – he has no desire to see his partner cowed and fearful, walking two steps behind and to the left, quiet and obedient. That just makes him think of his mother.

No, he determines, he and Stiles can both benefit from this arrangement. And if Stiles indicates he’d like it to get more physical, Peter certainly won’t say no – the boy’s gorgeous after all - but he won’t demand it. He gets no thrill from the idea of forcing someone, finds the whole idea of it distasteful.

But a slow seduction, getting Stiles to trust him enough that he offers himself?

That’s something Peter’s willing to work towards.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles takes Peter up on his offer.

Stiles rolls his eyes as his father tries yet again to convince him to change. “You can’t wear that on a date!” John gestures impatiently.

“He said casual. He said wear something comfortable. This is casual and comfortable.” Stiles stretches his arms over his head, revelling in the way his favorite plaid shirt gives him room to move. “Besides, he may as well know what he’s getting, right? I don’t want to be accused of false advertising.”

John throws his hands in the air. “I swear, you get more stubborn by the day. Maybe it is time you were mated off.”

At the word ‘mated’ Stiles swallows convulsively. Shit. Maybe his dad’s right. Maybe he should at least try and look the part. “You really want me to change?”

John shakes his head with a sigh. “Like you say, Peter may as well know what he’s letting himself in for.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “God help the pair of you when you argue, you’re both as hard-headed as the other.”

Stiles snorts. “Me? Argue? Everyone knows good omegas don’t talk back, Dad.”

His father doesn’t dignify that with a reply, just looks skyward as if praying for patience. It’s a look Stiles is intimately familiar with. “I’ll change the t shirt,” he offers.

At that John gives a small smile. “Something that doesn’t say _Down with the Oppressors_ would be nice,” he agrees.

Stiles changes into a plain v neck tee and has just reached the bottom of the stairs when Peter arrives. He steels himself for criticism, but Peter smiles, and Stiles notes that he’s wearing similar clothing to his own – worn jeans, comfy sneakers, and a lightweight button-down that’s rolled up to the elbows, and a cardigan slung over one arm. His hair’s not quite as perfectly styled as normal, and it makes him look softer somehow. As good as he looks in his normal suit and tie, casual suits him. Stiles realizes he’s been staring when his father nudges him in the side.

“Dad says I’m underdressed,” Stiles blurts out, and _what the hell, brain?_

Peter gives him an easy grin. “You’re perfect. We’re going on a picnic.”

“At night?”

“Picnic and outdoor cinema,” Peter amends. “And coffee after, if you’re agreeable.”

Stiles nods at that, and feeling bold, he asks, “Can we go to where I work for coffee? Because honestly, and I'd love to rub my boss's face in the fact I'm on a date with you."

"Oh?" Peter looks intrigued, so Stiles explains further.

"He's been a dick about the fact I'm not mated yet, says if I don't learn to act appropriately I'll end up alone. But he's also kinda-sorta- not jokingly said he’ll need to sack me once I’m twenty. He says that it looks bad having a single omega flirting with customers.”

Peter raises one eyebrow, and Stiles finds it far too attractive. “And _are_ you flirting with customers?”

Stiles is almost offended at the question, but then he catches the gleam in Peter’s eye and realizes he’s teasing, so he figures it’s safe to tease back. “Of course not. Like I said last night, if I were to put this out there, what chance would any other poor soul have?”

Peter doesn’t laugh, though. He nods his agreement. “Indeed. I count myself lucky you’re even considering me.”

Stiles feels his face heat at the compliment, and can’t think of a single thing to say in reply.

* * *

Stiles doesn’t really have anything to compare it to, but he thinks the date goes well. All he knows is he has fun. The movie’s some cheesy sci-fi flick that they mock mercilessly together, earning them shushes from the people around them, and the picnic’s delicious. Peter doesn’t talk about their mating, or what he expects from Stiles, or any of the stuff Stiles was expecting. They just spend a couple of hours together having a good time. Once Stiles gets over his initial nerves and relaxes, he finds Peter easy to talk to, and discovers they get along well. It turns out he’s as much of a nonconformist as Stiles himself. He’s just more subtle about it.

Case in point, when they turn up at Stiles’s place of employment, Peter nudges him forward. “I think you should go in first, sweetheart.”

Stiles is caught off guard by the unexpected term of affection and stiffens slightly, but Peter winks and says, “Relax, Stiles. I’m just getting into the spirit of things. I plan to make a show of doting, make your boss regret ever implying you’re not worthy of a mate.”

Stiles can get behind that – who doesn’t like a little doting, even if it’s just an act? He walks into the shop and is barely through the door when his boss comes over, bearing down on him like a freight train and making shooing motions. “What are you doing here alone at night? It’s not proper, you know that. I’m calling your father – “

Which is when Peter sails through the door, wraps an arm around Stiles’s waist, and presses a kiss to the side of his face, saying, “Did you find us a table yet, darling?” and Stiles gets to revel in the satisfaction of watching his boss choke on his own spit.

He leans into Peter’s casual embrace and smiles widely. “Not yet. Peter, this is my boss, Mr Lawson.”

Peter barely spares the man a glance. “You’ve mentioned him,” he says brusquely, and ignores his boss’s outstretched hand. “So, table? I’d like to talk about our potential mating, if you'll have me.”

Stiles knows Lawson must be burning with curiosity, knows Peter’s casual dismissal will be killing him inside, and his petty little heart rejoices in it. Who knew Peter was such an asshole? He snuggles further into Peter’s touch. It’s mostly for show.

Mostly.

Peter makes a small noise of surprise and Stiles worries briefly that he’s overstepped, but then the hand on his hip stays there, tightening slightly as Peter steers him to a booth. The touch is warm and comforting, and Stiles feels the loss keenly when Peter takes his hand away so they can sit. Peter orders two coffees, still barely acknowledging his boss, his gaze fixed on Stiles as though he’s the most fascinating person he’s ever met. It’s a heady feeling, having all this attention focused on him.

Peter waits until Lawson is out of earshot to say, “I can tell you right now, mate with me and you won’t be keeping your job here.”

It’s not what he was expecting to hear, and Stiles’s heart sinks. He should have known Peter wasn't serious about letting him have his own life. It was stupid to get his hopes up – it makes the sting of Peter denying him this worse, somehow. “I can't work? I thought you said I’d have my freedom?” He knows his tone is sharp, doesn’t care.

Peter rolls his eyes. “And you will, but do you really want that unpleasant man to take advantage of your status as my mate to promote his business?”

Oh. Stiles breathes deeply, and the tension in his chest loosens. “You’re right. He’d totally do that.”

Peter nods, point made. “Exactly. Besides, I assumed you’d too be busy with college to hold down a job as well. You did say you wanted to study.”

Stiles nods, but then spreads his hands. “Assuming I get accepted, and I can afford it –“

Peter silences him with a warm palm atop his own. ”I have friends in admissions at Beacon Community College. I'll make sure you get accepted. And as my mate, the cost is my concern. I was thinking that if we planned the mating for May, then you’d have time to get your application in and pick your courses before September intake.”

Stiles has to take a moment. “_This _September?”

“No time like the present, sweetheart. Assuming you accept my offer, of course.” Peter raises that eyebrow, a smirk playing around his mouth.

Stiles is so, so tempted to say yes right then and there.

So he does.

“Fine. Yes. Set a date.”

Peter’s mouth drops open in surprise. “Are you sure? There’s a lot we haven’t discussed.”

He looks like he’s going to keep talking, but Stiles interrupts him. “You’ve offered me everything I could hope for. What is there to think about?”

Peter sits open-mouthed for a few seconds, before giving a sharp nod. “You’re right, of course. I’ll set things in motion.”

And just like that, the deal’s done.

* * *

It’s only later when Stiles is trying to settle to sleep that it occurs to him that he never asked Peter about whether they’ll sleep together apart from the required claiming. He’s tempted to call him up and ask, but it’s 2 am, and he’s pretty sure that Peter won’t appreciate being woken to discuss hypothetical future sex. He decides it’s something they can talk about later. He’s just going to assume Peter will want to sleep with him. If he’s honest with himself, Stiles is looking forward to it.

Peter’s a handsome man, after all. His thick neck alone makes Stiles weak at the knees. Add in the blue eyes, the perfect features and that stubble? He’s everything Stiles could want. Just thinking about getting to put his hands on the man makes Stiles’s dick start to perk up. He closes his eyes and lets his hand sneak inside the elastic of his boxers, stroking himself idly as he fantasizes. He imagines Peter’s hands, so warm against his, running over the rest of his body, thinks about the fat alpha cock and obscenely large knot Peter no doubt possesses.

Will Peter take him soft and slow, or will he be fast and demanding? Will he take his time, slip his fingers into Stiles’s omega channel and stretch him? The thought of it makes Stiles whimper. When he first presented, he nudged a fingertip inside his newly developed body parts, curious, and pulled it out immediately because it was just too much sensation for his seventeen-year-old self to take. In his haste he scraped a ragged fingernail along the newly sensitive walls of his omega channel, and was so mortified he hasn’t worked up the nerve to explore that part of himself since. He makes do with jerking off during his heats, which are admittedly mild and barely last a day.

Peter, though. Peter doesn’t have ragged, bitten nails. Peter’s hands are perfect, with long elegant fingers, his nails buffed and well-kept. Those fingers would feel so good inside, Stiles just knows it. His hand moves faster, and Stiles thinks of how pleased it will make Peter to know he’s the first one to explore Stiles’s body, imagines how he’ll groan out praises to Stiles as he sinks deep inside, and it’s that thought that has him coming all over himself.

Stiles shudders through it, letting his eyes drift closed, a hazy grin on his face. He slips his boxers off and cleans himself up haphazardly, too dazed to bother getting out of bed, and drifts off to sleep, insomnia forgotten.

* * *

Peter tosses and turns and huffs, unable to settle. A glance at the clock tells him it’s 2.30 am. He admits defeat and gets out of bed to make a cup of tea.

He knows exactly why he can’t sleep.

He was pleasantly surprised when Stiles agreed so quickly, and Peter wants to make sure that he does everything he can to ensure a smooth mating, so his mind has gone into planning mode. He’s already completed his half of the guest list, made a mental list of possible venues, and chosen a color scheme.

It hasn’t helped – his brain’s still ticking over, looking for loopholes and pitfalls, ways in which this could go wrong. The problem is, Peter reflects, that he’s so used to having to maneuver and plot and plan, that for something to go so smoothly immediately sets his hackles up.

Maybe Stiles has an angle that Peter’s not aware of. Even as he thinks it, Peter dismisses it – Stiles is an open book. It’s simple. He needs to get mated before he’s twenty, or at least be promised to an alpha. Once Peter publicly declares his intent, he’ll be accepted as Stiles’s legal guardian in matters considered too important to be left in an omega’s hands. Stiles has been completely upfront -mating Peter means freedom and security for Stiles, and it’ll help his father’s re-election campaign greatly.

Peter’s mind keeps going back the sight of Stiles shirtless, the sharpness of his collarbones, the unexpected layer of lean muscle, the broad shoulders, the baby-pink nipples that just beg to be nipped and suckled at. He closes his eyes and tells himself firmly that he’s not thinking about this. He’s not going to obsess over the way his hand had slotted into place just so above Stiles’s hip, isn’t going to imagine how good it would feel to have both hands wrapped around that trim waist as he takes his pleasure. He certainly isn’t going to think about the way those brown eyes will go wide the first time Peter breaches him on their claiming night, the sounds Stiles will make. Peter just knows he’ll be so pretty, probably biting his lip and whimpering at the stretch of a knot. His cock throbs at the very idea.

The thing is, it’s been a long time between partners. Peter’s too busy to invest the emotional energy needed in a relationship, and in his position, he can’t exactly engage in anonymous hook-ups. Of course his body is reacting to the prospect of bedding a beautiful omega. It’s only natural, he tells himself. Natural, but inconvenient. He rubs a hand absently across the bulge in the front of the pyjamas and lets out a tiny hiss as he hardens further. It wouldn’t take much.

He presses the heel of his hand down, firmer, and now his dick is rock solid, throbbing and insistent. He lets out a groan, and tells himself firmly to _just stop._

His hand slips inside his waistband anyway.

He wonders if Stiles ever does this, ever plays with his little omega cock until it spurts across his belly. Peter wonders if he gets wet, if he’s ever fingered his channel open. He imagines Stiles, flat on his back, red-cheeked and panting, gasping out Peter’s name as he strokes himself, and his own hand moves without any conscious thought, chasing release, and before he knows it his orgasm’s _right there_.

Peter tells himself firmly that he’s not going to pleasure himself sitting at the table in the middle of the night. He’s _not_. It’s undignified. He should stop.

He doesn’t.

Visions of Stiles under him, of Peter knotting him, dance before his eyes, and a rough handful of strokes later he’s coming in his pyjamas with a gasp. The sticky mess in his palm drags him back to reality even while he’s still catching his breath.

Fuck.

Peter lets his head drop to the kitchen table with a thunk, tea forgotten.

Apparently, he’s more attracted to Stiles than he’d realized. Still, he tells himself as he grapples with the revelation, that’s not a bad thing. They are going to be mated after all. He’ll just have to keep himself under control, not start thinking that it gives him any right to help himself to Stiles’s body. This isn’t a hundred years ago, when omegas were literally chattels. Society’s moved forward, and Peter’s glad of it.

He regards his soiled hand with a sigh. He just needs to get it out of his system, that’s all. Surely once they’ve had their claiming night his curiosity will be sated, and they’ll be able to live together amicably.

Surely.

He goes to the bathroom and wipes himself down, discards his pyjamas altogether, and goes back to bed, where he finally falls into a deep sleep, dreaming of broad shoulders, long fingers, and a plush, kissable mouth.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles accepts Peter's offer, formally this time.

Stiles waits till the next morning to tell his father that he’s unofficially accepted Peter’s offer, and his dad is thrilled with the news. Although he makes a point of telling Stiles that mating’s a big step and he shouldn’t feel forced, Stiles can read his dad like a book, can see the way the tension eases out of him when Stiles assures him that yes, he really is happy to go ahead with this.

Stiles gets it, he does. It would be awkward for his dad, having an unmated omega son who’s caught in that weird legal limbo. If he doesn’t mate, Stiles will legally be an adult, so he can’t come under his dad’s authority, but he’s not considered responsible enough to hold a bank account, study, work, or take care of his reproductive health without an alpha to sign off. It's bullshit, but it’s the system, and he knows his dad’s been increasingly worried as Stiles’s birthday approached and nobody showed any interest.

Peter coming along really was a case of being in the right place at the right time. The more he thinks about it, the more Stiles is convinced this could actually work. They haven’t spent much time together, but he can already tell Peter and him fit somehow. And most importantly, he gets to go to college, gets to have a life that’s not popping out babies and perfecting the art of bread-making.

Peter comes over for lunch and they hash out the details. Stiles thought they’d just put a notice in the personals announcing their intention to mate, like ordinary people, but Peter laughs and shakes his head. “We want this to have maximum impact – we don’t want a single soul to miss the fact that the son of the sheriff is mating the mayor. You can’t buy publicity like that, and that’s part of why we’re doing this, right?”

Right. For political reasons. For just a moment, Stiles feels vaguely like the crown prince in some medieval romance. He’s drawn from his thoughts when Peter says, “So I was thinking I’d make a public offer of claiming. Unless you’re not comfortable with that sort of attention?”

Stiles honestly sort of loves the idea. Call him a sap, but Peter making a public show of asking makes him light up inside, hits all his buttons. “No, yeah. That’d be kind of cool, actually.”

Peter’s smile is knowing. “A great big fuck you to all those people who said you’d be forever single?”

And okay, maybe Stiles had babbled a little last night, confessed to Peter that he’d wondered if all those people who said he wasn’t fit to be partnered had a point. He flushes at the idea that Peter had actually listened. “Maybe?”

“Leave it with me. Now, a date for the ceremony?” Peter pulls out a day planner and they work through the logistics. Peter must have stayed up half the night, because he has extensive lists, phone numbers for venues, even a color scheme picked out. Stiles is grateful, because he really doesn’t care about any of that stuff. He lets Peter take the lead, only changing one or two details, and his treacherous omega self reflects that it really is nice having someone else making all the decisions for him.

He stamps on that thought hard. This is an exception. Planning is something Peter is good at, that’s all. It doesn’t mean Peter’s going to run his life. But just this once, Stiles can let him be in charge.

Peter’s stopped talking and is looking at him expectantly, and Stiles drags himself out of his thoughts with a guilty start. ”Sorry, what?”

“I said, do you want forewarning of when I’m going to ask you publicly, or would you prefer to be surprised?”

Stiles opens his mouth to say some warning would be nice, but what comes out is, “Surprise me, please?”

Peter gives a delighted smile. “Stiles, are you a closet romantic?”

“Shut up,” Stiles mutters, cheeks heating inexplicably at the thought Peter might be judging him.

Peter though, moves a little closer where he’s seated next to Stiles on the couch, takes his hand, and kisses the back of it gently. “I think it’s delightful, and I'll look forward to showering you with affection.”

Stiles goes a little bit melty inside at that. Stupid omega instincts, responding without his permission. Still, he smiles softly and leaves his hand in Peter’s.

* * *

Peter _said_ he’d make a grand gesture, so Stiles really should have been expecting something. But when three days later he looks up from the counter to take the next order and sees Peter standing in front of him smirking, it doesn’t ring any bells. Maybe it’s because he’s in his work mindset, but he honestly thinks Peter’s there for coffee. So when he instinctively asks, “What can I do for you today?” the last thing he expects is for Peter to drop on one knee and hold out a ring box. Stiles freezes.

“You can make me a very happy man and agree to be my mate, sweetheart,” Peter says, opening the box to reveal a claiming ring that’s as beautiful as is it is expensive. It’s a plain gold band set with diamonds the entire way around, sleek and gorgeous and probably worth three months’ salary. The gasp Stiles lets out is genuine, and his hands fly to his mouth.

The people waiting in line let out a simultaneous _aaaaw, _and any niggling doubts Stiles had that Peter would keep his word shatter into a thousand pieces. This is real. Peter’s proposing a mating, right here in front of god and everyone. His voice shakes when he answers. “Y-yes! Gods Peter, yes!”

Peter beams and then stands, vaults the counter, and pulls Stiles into a kiss. It’s unexpected, and it takes Stiles a moment to respond, but then he lets himself relax into Peter’s arms and goes with it. Peter’s a skilled kisser, his tongue barely dipping into Stiles’s mouth, soft lips contrasting with the scrape of his stubble, and Stiles honestly can’t help it when he lets out the tiniest moan.

He’d happily stay here all day, but then there’s a throat clearing, and some asshole in the queue is making a fuss, grumbling that he came for coffee, not a damn soap opera. Peter pulls away long enough to glare at the culprit, then he takes Stiles’s hand and slips the ring on. It’s a little big, but it’s a hell of a good guess, and Stiles can’t stop staring at it. Peter puts his mouth against Stiles ear and says, “Let me take you away from all this?”

Stiles can’t stop grinning, the shock of the proposal and the scent of a warm alpha right up in his personal space turning his brain to jelly. Which is probably why instead of coming up with something charming and romantic, he says, “But my shift doesn’t finish for an hour.”

Peter laughs, and says, “So, quit.” Then he literally tears Stiles’s apron off him, scoops him up in his arms bridal style, and carries Stiles out from behind the counter to the sound of clapping and cheering and cameras clicking as people capture the moment on their phones. Stiles barely has the presence of mind to call out, “Hey Mr Lawson, looks like I quit!” before Peter sails out the door, still holding him like he weighs nothing, and carries him down the street to his car.

He sets Stiles on the sidewalk with a hand on each shoulder and a soft kiss to his forehead.

Stiles is a whirlwind of emotion right now. For some reason he thought when Peter asked to mate him he’d be prepared, but instead here he is, utterly flustered, face red and heart beating out of his chest. “That was – wow.” Peter’s right there in front of him, and Stiles leans against him, so his knees don’t give out. Peter’s a solid wall of comforting muscle - he’s Stiles’s wall of muscle now. The thought makes him happier than it probably should. “You really did that. You proposed in front of everyone, and then carried me out of there like in that old movie.”

“Officer and a Gentleman,” Peter smirks. “Well, I did promise you a grand gesture.”

Stiles can’t hold back a happy sigh. “It was the best, and I don’t even care if it was for the publicity.”

Peter pulls away, looking vaguely hurt. “It wasn’t just for the publicity, Stiles. I thought you’d like it.”

Stiles tugs Peter close and chooses his next words carefully, because he doesn’t want Peter to think he didn’t appreciate the theatrics. “That came out wrong. I really did like it. but I also know it’ll be all over the Beacon Hills Happenings Facebook and Instagram pages within the hour.”

Peter’s face floods with something like relief. “As long as it lived up to your expectations.”

“It’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever seen,” Stiles assures him, and he’s just about to try and sneak another kiss when his phone starts ringing. Peter’s follows with a text alert a moment later. 

Peter pulls his phone out, glances at the screen, and gives him a wry smile. “Sounds like the news has hit.”

Stiles answers his phone and it’s his dad. “So, congratulations are in order huh?”

“How did you hear? It was literally minutes ago.”

“I’ve had four calls so far telling me stories that range from you being kidnapped by the mayor to you walking out on your job in a blaze of glory. Figured Peter had pulled some kind of stunt.”

Stiles can’t stop the grin spreading. “Yeah. He gave me a claiming ring right in the middle of the lunchtime rush, then carried me out of there like some oldey timey romance. It was awesome.”

His dad laughs softly. “That man always did have a flair for the dramatic. Are you making an official announcement then?”

“I guess? I haven’t had a chance to ask. Like I said, literally just happened.” Strong arms wrap round him from behind like a warm blanket, and Stiles sags into them. He can’t possibly hold a conversation when Peter’s distracting him like this. “Dad? I gotta go. I’ll call you, okay?”

“Sure thing kiddo. Congratulations again.”

Stiles’s phone starts to ping with texts and alerts, as does Peter’s. Stiles stares as the number of little red notification bubbles increases, before turning it off.

“Good idea.” Peter’s voice is soft in his ear, and Stiles feels Peter’s hand move as he fumbles with his own phone.

“I’m too shell shocked to talk to anyone else,” Stiles admits. “I still can’t believe you did that. You jumped the fucking counter and carried me off into the sunset.” Stiles knows he should probably stand up like an actual adult instead on leaning on Peter, but he’s too busy soaking up the warmth and attention, his brain still fuzzy.

“There’s no sunset at noon, sweetheart. And I rather enjoyed it. Now, why don’t we go somewhere quiet and catch our breath?” Peter moves away, but it’s only so he can open the car door for Stiles. Stiles’s body is loose and relaxed, and he honest to god slides into the passenger’s seat like a limp noodle. Maybe it’s just the adrenaline rush of the whole thing, maybe it’s relief at having his future secured, maybe it’s just Peter’s pheromones. Stiles doesn’t know and doesn’t care. All he knows is he feels like a weight’s been lifted, like the sword of Damocles is no longer hanging over his head like it has been since he presented.

For better or for worse, he’s been chosen.

* * *

Peter takes Stiles back to his place. Now that they’re an official couple, it’s (almost) perfectly proper for them to be alone together like this. If this was truly a romance, if Peter was a weaker man, Stiles would be naked in his bed right now.

But it’s not and he’s not, so Stiles remains clothed while Peter shows him around. It’s a perfectly pleasant double-story house in the nicer part of town, and it’s plenty big enough for the two of them. Stiles’s eyes widen when he sees the swimming pool, and Peter preens the tiniest bit. Once they’ve had the tour, Peter settles Stiles on his Italian leather couch with a cold drink and they both take a moment. Stiles is still grinning, looking slightly unhinged if Peter’s honest. “This is gorgeous,” he says at last, holding out his hand and looking at the ring.

Peter’s very proud of that ring. He had to take a day and drive two towns over to find something he liked and that he thought Stiles would appreciate. But he doesn’t tell Stiles that. He just says, “I’m glad you approve. We’ll need to get it resized of course.”

“Of course.” Stiles fiddles with the ring, slipping it on and off, before finally handing it over. His hand already looks odd without it, and Peter immediately hands it back. “We’ll go together, see if they can get it done today, once you feel up to facing people.”

Stiles leans his head back against the couch. “I don’t know why I’m so shaken, honestly. We’d already agreed to mate. It’s just, this was so stupidly romantic.”

Peter gives a soft laugh, stretching and casually throwing his arm around Stiles’s shoulders. “What, you’re saying you didn’t think I was capable of wooing you?”

Stiles turns into the touch like a sunflower chasing the sun. Peter doesn’t even think he knows he’s doing it. “Guess I was wrong, huh? You’re a pretty good woo-er.”

Peter’s absurdly pleased at that, his alpha instincts settling at hearing he’s pleased his omega. Which is surprising to him, seeing as this isn’t even a romantic match. Still, he supposes some reactions are inevitable – it’s just biology. Like the way he wants to kiss Stiles some more, wants to kiss him privately, not like the display they put on at the coffee shop. He can’t help but cup Stiles’s hand in his face and run his thumb over his bottom lip, asking, “May I?”

Stiles nods silently, and Peter kisses him. It’s a tiny gentle thing, barely an exchange of breath, lasting only moments, and it might be the best kiss Peter’s ever had. It appears Stiles feels the same, because when Peter pulls back his eyes are wide, his pupils dark. They stare at each other and Peter can feel the tension building, until finally Stiles gives his shoulder a tiny shove and snaps Peter out of his daze, saying, “We’d better get the ring fixed.”

Peter blinks and resists the urge to whine. “Right. I did say that. Ring.”

* * *

They get the sizing done, and Peter drops Stiles back at his car and then goes to his office, where he closes the door and leaves strict instructions that he’s not to be disturbed. He spends half an hour trying to proofread he press release he’d written earlier to announce their upcoming mating, but he can’t concentrate.

That kiss.

Not the public one, as lovely as that had been. The other kiss. The one that belonged to just them.

It should barely be counted, honestly. High-schoolers do worse on second dates. But it’s shaken Peter, awoken something in him that’s been dormant until now, a desire to protect and care for Stiles. Peter Hale has never wanted to protect anyone or anything in his life unless it suited his own purposes.

It’s not a bad thing, he tells himself. Now he and Stiles are to be mated, it’s good that his instincts are kicking in. It makes sense that his biology would make adjusting to living with someone else easier. He pushes back from his desk, standing and stretching, doing some breathing exercises in an effort to keep his thoughts in order.

It works well enough for him to complete the task at hand, but then he admits defeat, too distracted to be of any use. He hands the release to his assistant and says casually, “I’m taking the rest of the day. Make sure that gets sent where it needs to go?”

Her eyes widen as she scans the contents, and she gives Peter a bright smile. “Oh, this is a surprise! Congratulations, I’m sure you’ll be very happy.”

“I’m sure we will too,” Peter replies, and to his surprise he finds he means it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who aren't as old as dirt like I am, [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0xXA1S67Xds) is the movie scene Peter was referencing.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles prepares for his mating.

The announcement makes the front page, just as Peter predicted. The headline’s as predictable as it is cheesy – _Mayor Hale makes an honest omega out of Sheriff’s Son_. The article itself is condescending and gossipy, like all small-town newspapers, and Stiles grits his teeth when he reads it – he doesn’t even get mentioned by name, is just referred to as _“the lucky omega, Sheriff Stilinski’s only child,” _and then, later, _“Mayor Hale’s intended,”_ as if his identity is an afterthought.

The story’s saving grace is that it’s accompanied by a gorgeous photo - Peter on one knee, Stiles wide eyed and obviously thrilled. It was apparently contributed by a ‘member of the public.’ (Said ‘member of the public’ was, in fact, a photographer that Peter had paid in advance – Stiles laughed when Peter told him.) In fairness, Peter also used the article to wax lyrical about how John had done an outstanding job raising an omega son alone, and how he was just the kind of person Beacon Hills needed in charge of law enforcement, so his dad was pretty happy about that.

And now, the day of his twentieth birthday, Stiles is celebrating by sitting in a doctor’s office with Peter by his side, waiting to get a prescription for birth control. It’s yet another thing Peter’s giving him that he couldn’t have had otherwise. 

His name is called, and they go into the office. It’s not his usual doctor, it’s Peter’s doctor. This is where he’ll go now – it’s only proper. The man seems pleasant enough, even if he does address his questions to Peter, who confirms that yes, he definitely wants this. “I absolutely do not have time for an unexpected happy event at the moment. This will give me peace of mind,” Peter tells the doctor, who nods his understanding.

“I’m guessing you won’t want him to have a shot of heat suppressant though?” he asks, making a note on his clipboard. “It lasts a full year, shame to rob yourself of the thrill of a heat.”

“Please. I want that,” Stiles blurts out before Peter gets a chance to answer. The shots are controversial, but as far as Stiles is concerned no heat for a year would be a dream come true, especially if he’s studying. But the doctor ignores him, waiting for Peter’s reply, and Stiles deflates a little.

This is one thing they didn’t discuss, and he’s afraid that Peter won’t go for it. Peter though, just raises a brow at the doctor. “You heard my mate. He wants the shot,” he says coolly. The doctor’s mouth tightens, and Stiles can feel the disapproval radiating off him, but he doesn’t care, too busy squeezing Peter’s hand and trying to keep the grin off his face. Judging from the amused expression that Peter’s wearing, he’s failing.

The doctor has him roll up his sleeve and gives him both shots in his upper arm. It barely takes a minute, and it’s amazing to Stiles that something so life-changing could be so simple. The doctor cautions them that it takes seven days for the contraceptive to be effective, and Stiles‘s ears burn red when the man gives Peter a handful of knotting condoms “just in case,” and Peter slips them into his pocket without comment.

* * *

Peter takes him out for a celebratory lunch afterwards. Stiles is probably underdressed, but the dress code doesn’t seem to matter when he’s with Peter. The meal’s sublime, with Peter ordering a variety of shared dishes and insisting Stiles try some of everything, hand-feeding him tiny morsels. Stiles tries to fight his omega instincts, because really, someone popping a bite of bruschetta onto his tongue shouldn’t affect him like this, but it’s a losing battle and he melts under the attention, gazing at Peter like he hung the moon.

The mood’s broken when Peter’s phone pings with a text. Peter checks the message and tells Stiles, “Your father says he has a birthday surprise. He’s going to collect you and we’re meeting him out front.”

Stiles blinks stupidly. “Where are we going?”

“Your guess is as good as mine, sweetheart. Now, we just have time for you to finish this crème brulee. Open wide, there’s a good love.”

Stiles opens wide, and is a good love.

* * *

He feels a bit like a small child when Peter hands him off to his father in the carpark with a peck on the cheek, but he’s soon distracted by the way his dad’s so obviously trying to hide his excitement. “What gives, Dad? What are we doing?”

“Just get in the car. It’s a surprise.” The grin on his father’s face only serves to pique his curiosity, so he gets in the car.

His father drives them over to the other side of town, and Stiles squirms in his seat. “Why won’t you tell me?” he whines, but his dad just laughs at his impatience, and Stiles resigns himself to waiting.

They end up in the fashion district, the area of town reserved for the more exclusive clothing stores, and when John parks, he turns to Stiles and says hesitantly, “If it’s alright with you, I’d like to outfit you today, kiddo.”

Stiles wasn’t expecting that. _Outfitting the Omega_ is an old practice, one of those quaint traditions that seems to hang on, where a promised omega’s parents take them and buy them an entire new wardrobe to take into mated life- a parting gift, a way to show they’re prepared for life with their new partner.

If Stiles’s mother were alive, she’d be the one in charge, the one to guide his choices, but since she’s not, it never occurred to Stiles that his dad might want to step up and do it anyway. Stiles looks at the stores, at his father’s expectant look, at the stores again. “Are you sure? These places are pricey.” Stiles knows what his dad earns, and he knows what clothing from this end of town costs.

His dad gives him a look that clearly says _ye of little faith_. “Son, I’ve been setting money set aside for this since you presented. I know it’s old fashioned, but I’d like to do this. It’s something your mother would have wanted. Let me?”

Stiles’s throat tightens at the mention of his mom, and his eyes get a little damp. “Sure thing, Pops.”

Stiles suspects he might not be the only one suffering ocular dampness right now, given the way his father swipes the back of a hand over his eyes and clears his throat, before saying gruffly, “Good. Now get out of the damn car and let’s go make you look decent.”

* * *

For someone who generally wears either his uniform or a pair of jeans, John Stilinski turns out to have definite opinions about what Stiles will look good in. And the scary thing is, he’s _good_ at this. He works his way methodically through a list of stores, (his dad has a _list_, Jesus Christ, Stiles can’t even with this man) and Stiles gets measured and moved about like a mannequin and ends up trying on more clothes in three hours than he’s worn in his entire life.

He has to admit, it’s kind of fun.

The items are a far cry from his Walmart plaid and graphic tees. “You’re gonna be in the public eye, kid. You’re mating with the mayor, you need to look the part,“ his dad reminds him, and hands him a pair of rust colored jeans and a maroon v necked tee that look surprisingly good on him.

After that it’s onto formal wear, and that Stiles really does enjoy, casting glances at himself in the mirror, fascinated by the transformation as he tries on suit after suit and his dad issues orders like this is some sort of military operation, until they settle on the ones he looks best in. Stiles looks like a different person in a suit, like an adult, and he finds himself hoping Peter will like it.

Between his father’s determined approach and the extremely efficient salespeople, it’s not long before Stiles is the proud owner of several pairs of dress pants and fitted jeans, three suits, a dozen shirts, several silk ties, decent dress shoes that are actually comfy, and a stack of casual clothing that he can barely carry. It costs a small fortune, but his dad doesn’t even blink at the total.

Stiles thinks they’re done, letting out a sigh of relief, but then his father steers him along with a hand on his shoulder to one last store. Stiles sees what it is and stops dead, digging his heels in and refusing to go inside. “Nope.”

“Come on son. I know you’re tired, but I promise it’s the last stop,” his dad wheedles.

Stiles shakes his head. “That’s not it. I just – you can’t seriously expect me to shop here? And not – not with you!”” He gestures to the Omega’s Secret store, with its windows full of garter belts and lace.

His father lets out a sigh. “I figured I’d give it a shot. Come on, son. You can’t go into mated life wearing the same ratty underwear you’ve had since high school.”

“Can too,” Stiles mumbles. ”It’s not like Peter will care.”

His dad arches a brow. “Maybe he won’t. But think about this. It’s not all frou-frou and lace in there. You could get some nice, plain respectable briefs instead of those godawful batman boxers.”

“I like Batman,” Stiles protests. “Anyway, who's gonna see my boxers?” He sticks his hands in his pockets, muttering, “Besides, I’m pretty sure you’re not allowed in here.” He has no idea if that’s true or not, but it sounds like it should be.

His dad pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’ll tell you what,” he says finally. “Here’s some cash.” He peels off an obscene amount of twenties and shoves them into Stiles’s hand. “I’m going for coffee. I’ll be at least half an hour. If you happen to go in and browse, that’s your business. I won’t insist, but I will say, this mating’s a good match for you. Peter’s basically giving you what you want on a silver platter. So maybe when it comes to your claiming, it would be nice if you made some kind of effort.” He strides away without another word before Stiles has the chance to argue.

Stiles stares at the notes, then at his dad’s retreating back. He wants to follow him and give him his money back, to protest that he doesn’t need pretty underwear, doesn’t want to be dressed up like a plaything. But a tiny, treacherous corner of his mind whispers that maybe, just maybe, he’d _like_ to look good for Peter on their claiming night. 

For all it’s an arrangement, Stiles does want their mating to work out. And his dad has a point. His boxers are shot. Maybe it wouldn’t kill him to smarten up his underwear drawer. So once his dad’s out of sight Stiles squares his shoulders, takes a breath, and walks into the store.

He makes it all of three steps before a slim, well dressed omega wearing a practiced smile is at his side. “Welcome to Omega’s Secret. I’m Jeremy, how can I help you today?” he parrots, and then his eyes widen. “Oh! You’re the mayor’s mate!” His smile changes and becomes something genuine. “Are you shopping for the claiming night?”

“I – uh – I don’t know,” Stiles stammers out, suddenly shy, out of his depth. “This was a bad idea. I’ll just go.” He tries to leave, but the other man wraps a hand gently around his wrist.

“It’s overwhelming, isn’t it?” His tone is soft. “I remember my own outfitting. It was exhausting.” There’s something like sympathy in his eyes, and Stiles feels like maybe he understands. And apparently he does, because he says quietly, “First time in a store like this?”

Stiles nods dumbly. He’s always avoided places like this, written them off as too expensive, not for someone like him. Except apparently now he’s getting mated they _are_ for someone like him, and he has half an hour and a pocket full of cash and someone who’s willing to help.

He takes a deep breath and throws himself on Jeremy’s mercy.

“The rest of my outfitting’s finished, and there's just this - but I don’t even know where to start.” He spreads his hands wide. “Help?”

Jeremy smiles, and leads Stiles over to a seat. “Give me a minute to get what you need." He looks Stiles up and down, lips moving silently as he calculates sizes. Finally he nods."Sit right there, and I’ll be back.” With that he disappears, and Stiles is left trying not to stare at the women’s underwear display in front of him as his knee bounces up and down nervously.

It’s not long before Jeremy comes back with an armful of underwear, and Stiles’s face heats when he sees flashes of ribbon and lace and deep red silk. Jeremy takes in his blush and sits next to him, leaning close. “I know this seems like it’s over the top,” he says, conspiratorial, ”but believe me, there’s nothing like the rush of power you get when your alpha falls apart over a set of satin panties.” Jeremy lowers his voice. “Why do you think my alpha lets me keep my job here? Deucalion loves nothing more than when I bring my work home. A glimpse of silk and he’s putty in my hands.” His smile is pure mischief.

Stiles hadn’t thought of it like that. He imagines himself running a hand over a satin covered ass cheek. He thinks about how Peter would react, how his eyes would go dark and hungry as he watched. He wonders what it would be like to make Peter lose his mind, and decides he’d like to find out.

He turns to Jeremy and picks up the first item off the pile. “Show me what you’ve got.”

* * *

When he leaves, he has four bags of underwear, including a stack of plain old non-superhero embossed boxer briefs that are specially designed to sit nice and snug round his smaller omega package. (Stiles had always pooh-poohed the idea of omega briefs and the claims that they were more comfortable, but it turns out he was _so, so, wrong. _He's kind of mad about it.)

He's also in possession of a sheer lace camisole with matching panties in a deep blood red, and another set in dark blue satin. Once he got started, the whole thing was a lot more fun than he expected, with Jeremy encouraging him, bringing him item after item that matched his skin tones, and reminding him he’d only get outfitted once so he might as well make it worthwhile. Somehow, he ended up leaving the store with half a dozen different styles of underwear in a rainbow of colors, a garter belt that Jeremy threw in for free with a wink, and $7.25 in change.

All in all, Stiles would say it was a success.

His father doesn’t say a word, just loads it all into the back of the car with the rest of the shopping, and Stiles pretends not to notice his dad’s smug expression on the drive home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you wondering, Deucalion's not blind in this, because reasons.


	5. Chapter 5

Stiles has a date with Peter that night, at an upscale restaurant. “If only I had something to wear,” he says, grinning at his dad and throwing his arms wide at the scattered array of boxes on his bed.

His dad bumps shoulders with him fondly. “Smartass. Suit’s too much for just dinner - wear the charcoal pants and the white shirt. No tie.”

Sir, yes sir.” Stiles snaps a mock salute. “How do you suddenly know this stuff anyway?”

His dad rubs a hand down the back of his neck and ducks his head before admitting, “Kid, I’ve spent every night this week on the internet reading damn outfitting blogs and dress for success blogs and how-to guides. I didn’t wanna screw this up for you.” Stiles had wondered why his dad had been muttering at the laptop every evening. Now he knows. He snorts when his dad continues, “There’s some weird stuff out there, lemme tell you.” Stiles is touched that his dad would make that kind of effort.

Best parent _ever._

“Well you nailed it, Pops. Thanks.” His dad gives him a pleased smile, ruffles his hair, and leaves him to get ready. Once Stiles is dressed, hair styled and shoes on, he looks at himself in the mirror for a long time, thinking about that old saying about “clothes maketh the man.”

Maybe there’s something to it after all.

That theory’s confirmed by the expression on Peter’s face when he arrives and first catches sight of Stiles. It’s pride, admiration even, but also something more. _Hunger_. “Oh, just look at you,” he almost purrs.

A pleasant shiver runs down Stiles’s spine at Peter’s predatory tone. “I had my outfitting today. Dad took me.”

“So that was the surprise?” Stiles nods, suddenly unaccountably bashful. He was pretty certain Peter would like his new look, but he’s still quietly pleased when Peter says, “Well, I’m definitely a fan.” Peter steps closer, running a hand down Stiles’s collar, smoothing it absently. Stiles tells himself it’s because he’s checking the quality of the fabric. Probably. Judging by the way his hand lingers, he’s checking it pretty thoroughly.

John clears his throat. “I’d say have him home by ten, but I guess that’s not my place anymore.”

It’s true. They signed the papers of intention to claim yesterday, and for all intents and purposes Stiles is under Peter’s guardianship. Stiles finds it doesn’t worry him like he thought it would.

Peter flashes his dad a bright smile – a politician’s smile. “I’ll still have him home at a decent hour, John. It wouldn’t do either of us any good if I was seen to be acting improperly with my intended, after all. Not when the reception to the match has been so positive. People seem to be genuinely pleased.”

John nods his agreement. “I already had a couple of calls yesterday from folks congratulating me on such a fine match, and telling me I could count on their vote now that I had my house in order, quote - unquote.”

Peter smirks. “And my office has been flooded with messages as well. As I said, this is win-win.” He glances at his watch. “We really should be going if we want to make our reservations. Ready, sweetheart?” he extends an arm to Stiles, who takes it. “Let’s go show you off in all your glory.”

* * *

Despite his birthday ostensibly being the reason they’re here, Stiles can’t help feeling irrelevant. The waitstaff give the menu to Peter and ask him what his omega will be having. It’s pretty standard behavior, but Peter’s not having it, apparently. He makes a point of reaching out and taking Stiles’s hand. “I think you should ask the guest of honor what he’d like, don’t you?” It’s a subtle rebuke, but the waitstaff get the memo, and address Stiles after that.

Most of the people who stop by to congratulate Peter on ‘finally settling down’ barely spare Stiles a glance, just enough to satisfy their curiosity. He’s used to it from long formal dinners with his dad, but it starts to wear thin after a while, and by the time their starters arrive he’s pretty much done. He lets out a tiny sigh.

Peter takes Stiles’s hand again and squeezes it just tightly enough to show he’s aware of his boredom. He quickly finishes up his latest conversation with, “Now you must excuse me, we’re here to celebrate my sweet boy’s birthday, and he’s been very patient.”

“A good omega _should_ be patient,” the man says. “With your job, he’d best get used to sitting there looking pretty.” He looks at Stiles more closely, almost leers. “And he is a pretty one, isn’t he? Bet you’ll have him in the family way within a month.”

Stiles bites his tongue, resisting the urge to say, _Not anytime soon, asshole, I’ve had the shots_.

Peter though, seems to be offended on Stiles’s behalf, which is kinda nice. He’s refined in his response of course, but there’s no mistaking his displeasure as he wrinkles his nose as though he’s smelled something particularly unpleasant. “I’ve always found it so very distasteful when people discuss breeding over dinner. It’s a sign of a poor upbringing, I’ve always thought.” He turns away from the man, an obvious snub.

Stiles clears his throat and says softly, “Excuse me, alpha?”

Peter gives him an indulgent smile, “Yes, my lovely boy? Do you need something?”

Stiles wasn’t joking when he told Peter he’s practiced being meek and mild and he brings it out in full force, all downcast eyes and hunched in shoulders. “Do you think I might go to the bathroom?”

Peter’s on his feet in an instant. “Let me escort you, sweetheart. I know you haven’t been here before, and apparently there are unsavory types lingering.” Peter shoots the man a sideways glance as he hooks arms with Stiles, and off they walk, arm in arm, leaving the man standing there trying to figure out whether the mayor just insulted him or not.

  
When they get to the bathrooms, Peter sweeps Stiles into the sitting area attached and pulls the door shut, barely making it before Stiles is doubled over with laughter. “Unsavory types,” he hoots, before cackling even louder. It’s distinctly unrefined, not proper omega behavior at all.

Peter doesn’t seem to care, and when he joins in it’s a real laugh, a head-thrown-back belly laugh, rich and deep and unfairly arousing. _“May I use the bathroom, alpha?”_ Peter simpers. “Oh my word. You have hidden talents, Stiles. Have you thought of a career in acting?”

“Haven’t you heard? I’ll be in the family way within a month,” Stiles snorts, standing up now his laughter’s under control. He wipes tears of mirth from his eyes with the heel of his hand, still giggling.

Peter watches him with a strange smile for a moment, then pulls him in, drapes his arms around Stiles’s neck, and places a chaste peck on his lips. “I apologize for idiots intruding on our celebration. Shall I arrange for a private room for us to finish our meal?”

Stiles is flattered that Peter would offer, but he shakes his head. “We’re here so you can show off your new mate, remember? It’s fine.”

Peter runs a fingertip down his cheek. “Still. I’d hoped we could actually talk. How about this? We’ll go and finish our meal, but I’ll make sure we’re not to be disturbed. We are here for your birthday, after all.”

Stiles isn’t sure how Peter’s going to accomplish that, but he nods anyway.

* * *

Peter, in what Stiles is coming to recognize as true Peter style, gets his own way with half-truths and bribery. He's completely sincere when he takes the head waiter aside and slips him a fifty as he explains that he knows people just want to share their congratulations, but that his omega is feeling overwhelmed by the attention, and he’d appreciate it greatly if the man could divert any well-wishers. The man’s eyes go wide when he sees the note, and they aren’t disturbed for the rest of the evening.

They do talk, and Stiles finds himself relaxing in Peter’s company, wanting to spend more time with him. Something in him yearns to make his alpha happy, and Stiles isn’t sure if it’s hormones, or instinct, or the way society’s conditioned him. All he knows is that when Peter turns that pleased smile on him he lights up inside and gets a warm glow. He wants Peter to smile at him like that all the time. Peter doesn’t offer to feed him dessert this time, and Stiles finds himself disappointed. They do linger over coffee though, and when Peter pops the accompanying after dinner mint onto Stiles’s tongue it’s almost as good.

Peter drives Stiles home (at a very respectable nine forty-five), but when he parks the car, he holds up a hand. “Just a moment. You haven’t had your gift.”

Personally, Stiles thinks that no heats for a year and no babies is a perfectly fine gift thank you, but Peter obviously doesn’t agree because he undoes his seatbelt, reaches over into the back seat, and retrieves a rectangular package, handing it over with a flourish. Stiles tears off the paper and finds a new laptop. “You’ll need it when you start college.” The reminder makes Stiles grin so hard his face hurts. He’s overcome with gratitude.

“Thanks. I love it,” he says, gazing at the box and resisting the urge to rip it open. When he looks up, Peter’s watching him with a soft expression on his face that might be fondness. Something in the way he’s looking at Stiles causes the gratitude to morph into something else, something like desire, and Stiles impulsively leans over and tugs at Peter’s tie to bring him closer, and then he kisses him.

Peter makes a tiny shocked sound, but then his hand is tangled in Stiles’s hair holding him in place, and then Peter kisses back with a passion that takes him by surprise. It’s awkward as hell, and it doesn’t last long due to Stiles bashing his elbow on the gearstick and pulling away cursing, but the intensity still leaves him breathless. Peter might be blushing as he pulls back, mouth still open.

Stiles takes a moment to gather himself before saying, “Um. Wow.”

Peter lets out a shaky breath. “Apologies. I got carried away.” He sounds genuinely regretful.

Stiles give a little shake of his head. “No, you didn’t – I didn’t – you could get carried away again if you like?”

There’s a charged moment of silence between them and then Peter’s lunging at him, pulling him forward again. Stiles is ready this time, tilts his head and parts his lips, let’s Peter’s tongue slip inside, finds the angle that lets them line up so he can explore Peter's mouth as well. Now he’s the one with his fingers in Peter’s hair, tugging gently and moaning into their kiss as desire bubbles up inside him. Then Peter stops kissing him and Stiles finds his head being turned to the side as Peter buries his nose in the crook of Stiles’s neck, lapping and nuzzling at the scent glands there, groaning. “Smell so good sweetheart, fuck.”

Stiles omega instincts, the ones that he tries to ignore most days, won’t be silenced. He’s overcome with a burning need to please his alpha. He tilts his head back, tightening his grip on the back of Peter’s head and holding him in place. Peter breathes deep, and then there’s a sweet sting as he nips at the skin, worrying it between his teeth. Stiles whimpers, and the sound makes Peter pull back. Stiles misses Peter’s mouth already, wants it back. Peter lets out a shaky breath. “Oh, sweet boy. Perhaps you’d best go inside.” His voice is thready, breathless.

Stiles whines. “Please?” He’s not even sure what he’s asking for, but he instinctively tilts his head back further in an effort to tempt Peter to more.

But Peter just huffs out a soft laugh, face still only inches from Stiles’s collarbone, breath hot on his skin. “You should know that my gearstick is the only thing preserving your virtue right now.”

Stiles glances down and yes, Peter’s leaning far enough across that the gearstick is jabbing him right in the ribs, but also, the bulge in his pants is obvious. Something about the sight of Peter sprawled across the car at such an awkward angle, pupils blown wide, hair mussed, cock hard, makes Stiles savagely proud that he’s the cause of his alpha’s hunger.

But he’s also not stupid. He knows things can’t go any further until they’re mated. And he’s not cruel. He won’t tempt Peter with what he can’t have. He’s not some needy omega in a bad romance novel, throwing himself at the nearest alpha. He’s an adult. He can control himself.

So he reluctantly pulls back, wrapping his arms around the laptop box and holding it close to his chest, using it as a shield. “Well we must preserve my virtue. What would people say otherwise?”

Peter manoeuvres himself back into the driver’s seat with a forlorn sigh. “Quite so.” Stiles watches, amused, as Peter glances in the rear vision mirror, pulls a face at the state of his hair, and attempts to tame it. He’s not entirely successful.

“I’m gonna go. Thank you for dinner and, y’know.” Stiles opens his car door, reluctant to leave.

“It was my pleasure. I’ll call you tomorrow. We need to arrange our suits,” Peter reminds him, and if it wasn’t for the tinge of color in his cheeks, Stiles thinks, you’d never know that mere moments ago he was a wreck.

Stiles gives a nod and slips out of the car, carrying his gift. He walks in the door at three minutes to ten, and slumps against the wall, eyes closed, grinning.

“Good date?” His dad’s voice startles him. When he opens his eyes his father’s standing there, a knowing smile on his face.

“Yeah, it was.”

“You were parked out there an awful long time, son.” His father’s smirk widens, and Stiles has an awful suspicion he was watching them.

“Peter was giving me my present.” Stiles isn’t sure why he feels the need to defend himself.

“Uh huh. And is the present what’s in that box, or that bruise on your throat?” Stiles’s hand flies up to his neck to the spot where Peter had been kissing and licking and yes, it’s definitely tender. He can feel the flush creeping up his face. “It’s fine, kid. Good to know you two are _getting along_.” His dad makes honest to god air quotes, and Stiles wants to crawl under the coffee table.

“Um.” He tries to come up with a reply, mouth moving uselessly as nothing comes out. Finally, he whines, “Be nice, dad. It’s my birthday.” It’s weak, but he’s got nothing else, and it doesn’t help that now his dad’s actually _laughing_, just flat-out mocking Stiles’s discomfort.

Worst parent _ever._

Face flaming, Stiles stalks up the stairs with as much dignity as he can muster, the sound of John’s laughter following him.

* * *

One good thing about having a distinctive car like the Cobra is that Peter never, ever gets pulled over for speeding. Which is lucky, because he breaks all the limits and then some in his haste to get home. His car smells like arousal and unclaimed omega, and it’s all he can do not to pull over at the side of the road and wrap a hand around his cock, but the thought of someone seeing him helps him resist the urge, barely.

He pulls into his garage, switches off the engine and presses the remote to close the door, and he really does intend to go inside and take care of himself in a civilized manner, but then he takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself, and his nostrils are filled with the scent of Stiles, all sugar-sweet and citrus, sharp like lemon drops, and it’s too much. He unzips, thrusts his hand inside his pants, and tugs mindlessly, head back and eyes closed, moaning as he lets himself lose control.

He’s coming before it even occurs to him to unbuckle his seatbelt.

The only noises in the garage are the ticking of the motor as it cools, and the sound of his harsh breathing. Peter groans, the noise echoing in the near-silence.

This again? Really?

He reaches for the glove compartment where he knows (hopes) there are some wet wipes, and has to unbuckle himself to reach. Its then that it hits him how low he’s sunk, jerking off in his car like a teenager, just from a little kissing. He really needs to get a hold of himself. This is no way for a grown man to act.

Even if that grown man _is _being tempted by a boy who’s far too pretty and a lot smarter than Peter initially gave him credit for.

That’s part of the problem, Peter knows. Stiles keeps surprising him, and nothing turns Peter on more than someone who can keep him on his toes. When Stiles acted all shy and demure at the restaurant and then laughed about it afterwards? Peter had to hold back the urge to shove him up against the nearest wall and ravage him. He’d managed to dial it back to a chaste kiss, but the _need _had been there, boiling in his veins.

So when _Stiles_ had been the one to initiate a kiss, Peter could hardly be blamed for letting himself enjoy it. And he’d tried to do the right thing, he had. He’d pulled back, even apologized, but then Stiles, all big brown eyes and deliciously soft lips, had suggested they do it again. How was Peter meant to resist an invitation like that?

Peter hadn’t intended to scent Stiles, honestly, but he’d been drawn to follow the tart, citrus-sweet scent to its source, and the curve of Stiles’s neck where the glands were nestled was such a tempting spot to bury his face, and with skin that perfectly pale and soft, it would have been a crime not to sneak a taste of it. And really, is it Peter’s fault Stiles bruises like a peach?

When Stiles had tilted his head back further, had made that needy sound, an alarm had sounded in Peter’s brain, and he’d managed to pull back before his need to claim, to take, overwhelmed him. They’d been getting dangerously close to crossing lines Peter wasn’t prepared to cross.

Thankfully Stiles seemed to feel the same, and Peter had been able to leave with his self-control mostly intact.

Now though? He suspects the remains of that self-control are smeared on the crumpled wet wipe he’s holding in his hand.

He throws his head back and it hits the headrest with a thunk. The mating’s in four weeks, and Peter’s not sure he can hold back that long. 

Fuck.

* * *

For your viewing pleasure - baby's ready for his date.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter never was very patient, but luckily he's a problem solving kinda guy.

Stiles wakes up early, feeling nauseous. It takes a minute, but then he recalls that the doctor warned him it might be a side effect of the contraceptive shot. Oddly enough, it cheers him up immensely. It’s proof that the shot’s working, that his biology’s been bent to his will. He only gets to enjoy the feeling of being in control for a minute though, because then he has to go throw up. The doctor assured him it will only last a day or two while his hormones adjust, and as Stiles brushes his teeth and rinses his mouth, he reflects that it’s worth it.

He wanders out of the bathroom and downstairs to find his father on the phone, a frown on his face. “I’m just saying, that’s a hell of a change of plans to drop on a man at the asscrack of dawn, Peter.” Stiles can hear Peter on the other end talking rapidly and John’s frown deepens. “Uh huh. I understand.” He glances up and sees Stiles, and says, “Look, I’ll put him on and you can tell him.”

Ice water runs through Stiles’s veins as a horrible thought strikes him. Has Peter changed his mind?

His dad’s holding out the phone and Stiles stares at it, dread gathering in the pit of his stomach. What could have happened between yesterday and today? He thinks of the dark smudge on his neck and his stomach drops further. Of course. Peter marked him, _tasted_ him, and afterwards he decided Stiles isn’t suitable after all, has some fucked up form of buyer’s remorse.

Goodbye college, goodbye freedom.

His dad’s waving the phone at him insistently, so he takes it. At least, he thinks bitterly, he got his shots before it all went to hell.

“- there, Stiles?” 

“Uh, yeah. What’s up?” He’s pretty sure he knows, but he wants Peter to at least have the guts to say it.

“I was telling your father. I think it’s best if – “

“We call the whole thing off?” Stiles interrupts, suddenly unable to bear hearing the words.

He waits for Peter to confirm that yes, he wants out of the deal, but instead there’s a rich chuckle. “Actually sweet boy, it's the opposite. I’d like to move the ceremony to next weekend.”

Stiles can’t quite process what he’s hearing. “What?”

“Next weekend. I’ve looked at my schedule again, and I have the budget meetings coming up the week after that, and then it’s almost time to start campaigning, and it would work so much better if we do this earlier. Plus, it means you’ll be properly mated when your father starts his campaign, instead of just promised.”

Stiles looks at his father wide eyed, unable to comprehend. His father shrugs, as if to say he has no idea what's going on, either. Stiles feels as if his brain is suspended in mid-air, swinging wildly between disappointment and confusion. Peter wants to mate _sooner?_

“Stiles?” Peter’s voice pulls him out of his thoughts.

“I thought you were calling to dump me,” he admits.

“Yes, I gathered that, though I don’t know why you’d think such a thing.” Stiles can hear the amusement in Peter’s voice and yeah, okay. It was a stupid thing to think.

“We can't. I don’t have anything to wear,” is what falls out of his mouth.

Peter makes a dismissive sound. “That’s easily fixed. There’s a free slot next weekend at the gardens, and the caterers can squeeze us in, so the logistics are no problem.”

Stiles isn’t sure if he’s relieved that he hasn’t been left high and dry or annoyed that Peter’s arranged this without him, but then Peter says, “What do you think, sweetheart? I had them pencil us in while I ran it past you, but can I go ahead and confirm? ”

Fine. He’ll go with relieved.

He does have one question, though, a minor detail that's been niggling at him. “When we mate, I don’t want to wear a white suit. I know it’s tradition, but I look like shit in white.”

“In all honesty I’d like to see you in white, but I think we’ve established you’re not the traditional type. We can choose together if you’d like? I can free up some time this afternoon.”

A whoosh of air leaves Stiles’s lungs. “Please?”

“Consider it done. So, can I assume you’re fine with moving the date?”

Stiles realizes he still hasn't given Peter an answer. “What day next weekend?”

“There’s a spot on Sunday morning at ten."

He does some quick calculations. It’s Friday today, and the shots take seven days. Perfect. “Let’s do it.”

He’s not sure, but he thinks Peter sounds relieved. “Excellent. Leave it with me. I’ll organize everything, and I’ll collect you at two for suit shopping.” Stiles is about to hang up when Peter adds, “And thank you for being so accommodating, sweetheart.”

Something inside Stiles relaxes at the simple thanks. Really, Peter could have just _told_ him the ceremony was moved, but instead he’d asked for Stiles’s input, listened to his opinion. It cements Stiles’s impression that at the very least, Peter’s a decent person and they’ll have an amicable pairing.

* * *

Peter’s an utter asshole, and being mated to him is going to be hell.

Stiles crosses his arms over his chest and glares, but Peter continues to hold firm. “Absolutely not. Its one thing to not want white, but there’s no way you’re wearing this.”

Stiles looks at himself in the mirror and pouts. “But it looks good!”

“I don’t care. Red has connotations, don’t pretend you don’t know that. I’m not having you turn up to the mating looking like some…some _hussy_,” Peter hisses.

Stiles chokes at that. “A hussy? What are we, living in Victorian times now?”

“No, but we are living in Beacon Hills, and you know what I’m talking about. It won’t look good to the voters. This is meant to be helping with the election, remember. Pick something else.”

Stiles wants to dig his heels in, wants to insist, but he’s seen the latest polls, and while Peter’s numbers are pretty solid, his dad’s are less so, and he knows his unmated status is partly the cause. Besides, he doesn’t want their first real argument to be over his wedding suit. So he takes the jacket off and holds it out to the sales assistant. “Fine. Red’s out.”

“Thank you, sweetheart.” And dammit, how is Stiles supposed to stay mad when Peter’s giving him that sweet smile? Asshole’s probably doing it on purpose. Stiles steps into the changing room and strips out of the rest of the suit. There’s a knock at the door and Peter’s voice floats through. “How do you feel about blue?”

“Baby blue or TARDIS blue? I don’t do pastels.”

A jacket lands over the top of the door with a whump. Stiles drags it over, eyeing it critically. It’s a darker blue, kinda nice. “Send the rest,” he calls out.

A pair of pants comes flying over next, and he thinks that’s it, but then a shirt and tie in the exact same shade gets added to the pile, and yeah, that could work.

He dresses quickly, straightens the tie, and surveys himself in the mirror. He looks…good. Like, seriously good. The color’s strong enough that it gives him a certain gravitas, but not so dark that it washes him out. He nods at his reflection, and steps out of the changing room, arms spread wide. “So?”

Peter’s face splits into a smile. “Oh, yes. We’ll take it.”

“I never said whether I like it,” Stiles objects, ignoring the saleswoman’s eyeroll.

“You didn’t have to, sweetheart - your whole body speaks for you. The way you’re standing tall, the smile on your face, it all screams that you love it.”

Peter’s right. Stiles feels at home in this suit, confident and assured, and the way he’s holding himself reflects that. “When did you get so good at reading people?”

Peter just laughs. “Politician, sweetheart. It goes with the territory.”

Stiles looks down at himself again. “What about you, what are you wearing?”

Peter looks supremely smug. “Hang on.” He disappears for a minute and returns with a matching suit. It’s not exactly the same shade, has a different cut and is paired with a white shirt, but they’re obviously made to be worn together. It’s a relatively new trend for couples to wear suits made to complement each other, but it’s not so out there that it will upset the voters. It‘s meant to indicate mutual respect or something. Stiles doesn’t care. All he can think is that Peter’s going to look stunning.

He has to clear his throat. “Can I - can I see it on?”

“I suppose you’ll make a fuss if I say no.” Peter huffs, acting like it’s the biggest imposition in the world, but Stiles notes he’s pretty damn quick to duck into that change room. When he emerges, Stiles breath catches. The suit’s almost a perfect fit, and the color makes Peter’s eyes sparkle and dance, accentuating just how blue they really are. The white shirt against his tan throat contrasts gorgeously. He’s mouth-watering.

Stiles, for once in his life, is lost for words. Peter’s looking at him expectantly though, so he manages,“Yes. That.”

Peter gives a bright smile, and turns to the sales lady. “Can we have these altered for collection next Friday?”

“I’m not sure, we might not be able-“ she starts, but then Peter presses a folded banknote into her hand and after glancing at it, she changes her tune abruptly. “That will be no problem at all, Mr Hale. Just let me get you both measured up.”

It turns out Stiles only needs an inch off his hems and he’s good to go, and Peter’s the same -just a few minor tweaks to make everything sit properly. As Peter’s paying the bill, Stiles finds his gaze drawn back to the mannequin displaying the red suit, and he can’t help a tiny disappointed sound. He knows Peter was right, but he still liked it.

Peter catches his glance, and lets out a world-ending sigh. “Yes, fine.” He turns to the assistant. “We’ll take the red as well.”

“What?” Stiles stammers out, caught off guard.

Peter shrugs. “You like it. and just because it’s not right for the mating ceremony doesn’t mean you didn’t look wonderful. Once we’re mated, I’ll look forwards to taking you out and showing you off.”

“I thought red was for hussies?” Stiles challenges, because really, Peter deserves to be called out for that.

“Do you want the suit or not?” Peter lifts an eyebrow and taps his credit card against the counter.

Stiles really, really does. “Yes, please.”

The saleswoman bustles off to fetch the clothing, and Peter steps closer. “You really do look delectable in the red,” he murmurs. “It’s your color.” 

Stiles takes in Peter’s hungry expression and thinks about the items in the back of his underwear drawer, the ones he wasn’t sure about using.

Maybe he will use them, after all.

* * *

Maybe it's vanity, but as Peter lays in bed the morning after they choose their suits, he takes a moment to congratulate himself. Moving the mating was a stroke of genius, if he does say so himself. He was even able to frame it as work commitments, so Stiles won’t feel pressured by Peter’s growing attraction to him.

He was somewhat taken aback when Stiles somehow thought that Peter wanted to call the ceremony off - he wonders what goes on in that boy’s head sometimes, honestly. But once he’d cleared that misconception up, Stiles had happily agreed, and Peter can’t help but hope that means Stiles is looking forwards to this as well.

He’s heard stories about how mating an omega is different, more intense, that the sight of a naked body presenting combined with the scent of the slick and can cause an alpha to react, make the beast to rise to the surface, but Peter’s confident he’s not like that. He vows to keep himself on a tight leash, not scare his mate off. The last thing he wants is for Stiles to think he’s some kind of animal. No, Peter will keep it slow and sweet and gentle, take his time, be considerate. He won’t do anything Stiles isn’t ready for, even if that means waiting, possibly even till the next day.

Ideally though, they’ll mate on the day - purely so Stiles will smell claimed, of course. Peter wouldn’t want anyone to question the validity of their match. He’s hopeful Stiles will be enthusiastic. He certainly seemed keen enough in the car. But Peter will let him take the lead. Peter knows his sweet boy has no experience, is pure as the driven snow. It thrills him if he’s honest, to think he’ll be the first, the only one, to see Stiles spread beneath him, to open that sweet little quim, press a finger inside. Maybe he'll slip his tongue in there, nice and slow…

Peter’s cock starts to thicken and throb, and he groans in frustration.

No.

He’s not thinking about this, he's not. He’s going to get up, get dressed, and go to the office, where he’ll start working on his election campaign. He glances down at his lap and sighs.

Right after he takes care of…this.

Again.

* * *

The boys be so pretty....

Do we blame him for wanting this?


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mating ceremony.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should warn you I hit post instead of preview, so if there are typos, feel free to ignore them. I'll scoot through and catch them later. Probably.  
Maybe.

Stiles discovers that a week can fly by when you’re getting mated at the end of it. He has a couple more bouts of nausea from his shots, but as promised it tapers off, much to his relief. He doesn’t have time to be sick.

He has to pack his stuff up ready to move in with Peter and it takes longer than he thought, sorting through all his crap and deciding what to keep. There are some things he just can’t make up his mind about until his dad takes pity on him and tells him to box it up and he’ll keep it in the attic for now.

He and Peter spend most of the week together, Peter having taken leave due to the impending mating, but it’s not like they get into deep and meaningful conversations – the time’s mainly spent sorting out last-minute details, and arguing mildly over which canapes to serve. (Stiles wins that round – caviar, schmaviar.) They get it all done though, by the skin of their teeth, and Stiles can’t help but be glad they hadn’t planned anything too lavish – they’d aimed for simple but elegant, which meant moving the whole thing forward was doable – just.

Before Stiles knows it, it’s the day before the mating. He’s in his room, fishing crap out of the back of his drawers, when there’s a knock on the door and his dad pokes his head around. “Hey, kiddo. Can I come in?”

“Sure.” Stiles barely spares his father a glance, too busy trying to figure out how a pack of gum ended up in his drawers. He doesn’t even chew gum. But then his dad clears his throat and sits on the bed, and something in his manner makes Stiles take notice. “What’s up, pops?”

“Big day tomorrow, huh?”

Stiles sits next to his dad and leans his head on his shoulder. “Yeah.”

“Nervous?” John drapes an arm over Stiles’s shoulder.

“No. Yeah. Maybe?”

John snorts. “Pick one, kid.”

“I’m kinda nervous,” Stiles admits. “What if Peter’s secretly a sexist asshole?”

His dad draws back and looks at him. “If he was a sexist asshole, do you think I would have let him in the front door?”

“I guess not,” Stiles mumbles.

John sighs. “Kid, sometimes Peter’s a jerk. But honestly? So are you. You’re actually a pretty good match.”

“Gee, thanks,” Stiles mutters, but oddly enough his father’s accurate character assessment of them both does make him feel better.

His dad runs a hand through Stiles’s hair. “Anyway, I figure the pair of you are stubborn enough to make this work. It’ll be fine. Peter will take care of you. And if he doesn’t? I’ll just shoot him.”

Stiles squawks, slightly scandalized that his dad would say such a thing. “You would not!”

“Not fatally,” his dad amends, “because that’s a hell of a lot of paperwork.” Stiles glances up to see his dad’s eyes dancing with merriment, realizes he’s kidding. He should have seen that one coming.

Stiles grins and nuzzles in closer, enjoys just sitting together. It’s nice, comfortable, and Stiles lets himself relax at his dad’s reassurances. Of course, then his father has to go and spoil it. “Do we need to talk about the claiming night?”

Stiles pulls away, horrified. “No!”

“You sure? Because there’s things the books don’t tell you -“

Stiles claps a hand over his Dad’s mouth. “Nope, all good, in possession of the facts, A-OK, I promise,” he babbles.

His dad pulls Stiles’s hand away from his mouth, and he’s grinning wryly. “Thank Christ for that. I’m no good at this stuff.”

Stiles grins back. “I dunno, I mean your son’s mating with the mayor, you must have gotten something right.”

“Smartass.” His dad shoves him sideways across the bed.

Stiles just shrugs. “I take after you.”

* * *

When Stiles wakes on the morning of his mating, he’s far too calm, and it makes him nervous because he’s not more nervous, as if that makes any kind of sense. But it’s the truth. He feels like he should be jittery and out of sorts at getting mated to someone he hasn’t known that long, but if anything, he’s almost excited.

Peter has a lot going for him. Quite apart from college and contraception and freedom, (and those things alone make this a pretty sweet deal), Peter treats him like he has a brain, and doesn’t try and pressure him into behaving a certain way, even when it really would be in Peter’s best interests to make Stiles toe the line.

And it definitely would be in Peter’s best interests.

Peter’s rival for the post of mayor is Gerard Argent, the most traditional Alpha ever to Alpha. He’s all about ‘family values’ and ‘the way things were in the good old days’ and he’s been vocal in his condemnation of Peter’s lack of a mate. _“If a man can’t even mate, how can he administrate?”_ is his catchcry.

Argent’s own omega is a quiet woman, mated to the man when they were both just teenagers. She always seems content, but it’s hard to judge, since she she’s rarely seen in public. When she does appear, she’s perfectly groomed and gazes at her alpha adoringly, and Stiles guesses it’s _possible_ that she cares for Gerard and shares his worldview. He just can’t imagine why anyone would.

Gerard Argent is a poisonous old beast, and nobody really likes him, but people are still prepared to vote for him. Or rather they were, when he was accusing Peter of having liberal leanings. Now though? He’s gone strangely silent, and his figures have taken a nosedive, much to Peter and Stiles’s quiet glee.

Still. If Gerard Argent can have a happy mating, Stiles probably can too, right?

Stiles drags himself out of his thoughts and out of bed and goes in search of coffee. He makes himself a cup and finds a box of pastries in the fridge that he assumes are breakfast, so he helps himself, settling himself at the table and taking a moment to enjoy the quiet before the controlled chaos of the day.

He’s getting mated in…he squints at his watch…four hours.

He downs his coffee and pours another cup. This is his last day as a Stilinski, his last day in this house. It’s a sobering thought, and he has a moment of something like melancholy. He pushes the pastries aside, barely touched, and goes upstairs in search of his dad.

He knocks on his dad’s bedroom door and when there’s no reply, he opens it slowly. His dad’s blinking, barely awake, and Stiles has a sudden urge to curl up next to him like he did when he was a kid, when they both needed the comfort and contact after his mother’s death. His father must sense it somehow, because he opens his arms wide and rasps out “Get here, kid. Give your old man a hug.”

Stiles isn’t ashamed to say he dives onto the bed, wrapping himself around his father’s side like an octopus. His dad squeezes him back, and they lay there quietly for a long time, soaking in each other’s company, before Stiles breaks the silence. “I’ll miss this.”

John snorts. “You’re moving across town. I think you’ll cope.”

“I know but…“ Stiles isn’t sure now to describe it. “It’s just change, that’s all.”

John gives Stiles another squeeze. “I get it, kid. But you’ll still see me. And change is part of life.”

Stiles knows his dad’s right. He sighs and sits up. The bedside clock tells him it’s almost seven – he must have been here longer than he thought. “I gotta get ready,” he mumbles, stretching and yawning.

He rolls out of bed, confidence bolstered by the talk and the touch, and goes back downstairs to finish his breakfast.

* * *

The weather’s perfect.

The gardens are beautiful, the decorations elegant, the flowers are artistry of the highest level, and Stiles doesn’t notice any of it, because his gaze is fixed on Peter, who has absolutely no right to be as handsome as he is in that blue suit.

When Stiles and his father step up and take their place beside him, Stiles doesn’t miss the way Peter’s face lights up at the sight of him, or the way his eyes sweep over Stiles’s suit-clad form. Stiles raises an eyebrow and gives a tiny grin, and Peter responds with a smirk that’s absolutely filthy. It makes something in Stiles settle, knowing his alpha’s pleased with him – when he thinks about what he’s wearing under the suit, he hopes Peter will like that as well.

He takes a minute to look at the guests. It’s only a small gathering, he and Peter both agreeing that ‘intimate and exclusive’ was the way to go, but there are still quite a few faces that he doesn’t know. He does know the Hales – has met them briefly earlier in the week. There’s Derek, a startlingly attractive alpha with dark hair and stubble who always looks like someone just murdered his cat, seated next to three dark-haired women who all share the same stunning bone structure - Peter’s sister Talia and her daughters Laura and Cora. They seemed nice enough when Stiles met them, if a little intimidating, but Peter assured him later that they’d liked him well enough.

There are a couple of Stiles’s workmates from the coffee shop, as well as several deputies, the ones he’s known forever, and who babysat him all those times when his dad got called into work and Stiles had to tag along. He still has the set of lockpicks that Parrish gave him for Christmas when he was twelve, on the understanding that this was just between them, and he vividly remembers Tara teaching him basic self-defense when it became obvious that alphahood wasn’t going to be part of Stiles’s future. They’re practically family, and Stiles’s heart warms at seeing them there.

Melissa McCall’s there. Scott isn’t.

Stiles hadn’t really expected him to come, not with him being on the other side of the country studying. Besides, they aren’t as close as they were. Scott’s the best friend that you call your best friend out of habit, but it’s been a long time since it was true. He and Scotty were joined at the hip once upon a time, the brother Stiles never had. But when Scott presented as an alpha at fifteen, things changed between them. Scott got caught up in his new popularity, and Stiles kind of got left behind. They keep in touch, but it’s not the same.

When Stiles called Scott to tell him he was getting mated and going to college, he had to listen to ten minutes of Scott whining about how living away from home was _hard_, and did Stiles know Scott’s eaten nothing but ramen and boiled eggs for the last week, and who knew college involved so much study? Stiles had taken the chance and leapt in with, ”I guess I’ll find out. I’m starting in the fall.”

There had been a moment’s silence, followed by a confused, “How?”

Stiles had told Scott his news, and Scott had gone quiet, before offering a very subdued, “Congratulations I guess, even if it is only community college. At least you won’t have to eat ramen.” The conversation had petered out shortly after that. So yeah, it’s not really a surprise that Scott didn’t bother to turn up.

Stiles is surprised to see Jeremy there next to an older, refined looking man. Jeremy gives him a small wave and mouths _surprise. _Stiles wants to ask Peter how he knows them, why they’re here, but the officiant clears his throat, the guests go quiet, and they start the ceremony.

It’s fairly simple, an alpha/omega mating. It’s rarely a love match, so there are no flowery words proclaiming it’s a pairing written in the stars or suchlike. It’s more John ceremonially handing over stewardship of Stiles to Peter. In his more skeptical moments Stiles has been guilty of comparing it to selling a used car – _only one owner, barely driven, you’ll never regret it._

But Peter’s not looking at him like he’s a used car right now. Peter’s smiling, and it’s his real smile, not the politician’s one. Stiles returns the smile with one of his own, only distracted when his father takes his hand for the start of the ceremony.

The official starts by welcoming the guests, runs through the usual niceties about a pairing being legally binding, and then turns his attention to the three men in front of him. He addresses John first. “Alpha Stilinski, do you give your approval for your omega to be mated this day?” the official intones.

John lets go of the hand he’s holding and takes a step back. “This day, I pass the care of my son onto his new mate.”

The man then turns to Stiles. “And Omega Stilinski, do you agree to this union with Alpha Hale, agree to submit to his authority and put yourself under his protection?”

Stiles nods. “I agree to mate with the Alpha Hale, submit to his authority and put myself under his protection.” Once upon a time, the question wouldn’t even have been asked.

Finally, it’s Peter’s turn. “Alpha Hale do you accept the Omega Stilinski as your mate and take him under your authority, offering your protection?”

“I accept Omega Stilinski as being under my authority and my protection,” Peter says, grinning. Then Peter offers a hand to Stiles, as the ceremony demands, and Stiles doesn’t hesitate to place his palm in Peter’s.

Their wrists are loosely bound together with a silk ribbon by John to symbolize their union, the official says a few words congratulating them, and then he declares, “The new mates may kiss.”

Peter steps closer, and Stiles finds himself leaning towards him in anticipation. Peter breathes out a chuckle that’s barely loud enough for Stiles to hear, and then places a soft kiss on his lips, starting slow and gentle. Stiles closes his eyes and melts into it, ignores the gentle clapping of the guests. He knows he should probably pull back, but Peter has _such_ a nice mouth, and his tongue sneaks out and traces at the seam of it without him even being aware. Peter tilts his head, opens his mouth to grant him access, and the kiss deepens, becomes something more. Peter’s hand, the one not tied with cord, grips Stiles’s hip tightly, holding him there as Peter starts to kiss him more urgently, without restraint, and it’s only when someone quips _‘get a room!’_ that they pull apart, both flushed and panting, to scattered laughter.

Peter raises their joined hands to the guests and holds them aloft like a prizefighter, and Stiles hears the telltale click of a shutter that indicates a photographer hard at work. Knowing the camera’s trained on them, he leans in and gives Peter a peck on the cheek, holding the pose long enough to give them a good shot. Peter’s lips barely move as he murmurs “Nicely done, sweetheart,” and Stiles’s heart flutters at the praise.

It continues to surprise him, the way he melts at the tiniest bit of approval. He’s never cared what an alpha thought of him before. Of course, he’s never had an alpha interested in him the way Peter is, either. Maybe this is normal. Maybe all that stuff about wanting to please your mate that he dismissed as fantasy and hearsay actually has some basis in fact. Stiles doesn’t know. Right now, he doesn’t care. Right now, all he wants is to soak up the good feelings he gets when Peter tells him that he’s doing well.

Peter must sense it somehow, because as he lowers their hands, he turns his full attention to Stiles, turning so they’re facing each other and presses a soft kiss to Stiles’s forehead. “You’re quite perfect,” he says quietly. It’s out of the blue, not prompted by anything, and Stiles can tell he’s sincere. His face heats as his cheeks pink up, and he ducks his head. It’s almost textbook omega behavior and he doesn’t even care. He’s vaguely aware of the photographer telling them that’s perfect, stay like that, and of a few people making an aawing noise, and for a moment he wonders if maybe Peter’s played on his instincts, set this up for the sake of the photo-op.

But when he glances up, Peter’s not looking at the cameras, isn’t looking at anyone except Stiles, and he’s obviously concerned. “Are you ok, sweetheart? You’re very quiet.” 

Any thoughts Stiles had that this was for show fly from his mind in that moment. He gives Peter what he hopes is a reassuring smile. “I’m fine, Alpha.” He doesn’t miss Peter’s sharp intake of breath at his use of the term, or the way the hand on his hip tightens, and he files that tidbit away for later.

They turn and face the guests walking slowly down the makeshift aisle with their still-joined hands raised, accepting the nods and whispered congratulations, and finally it’s time for Peter to tug at the end of the ribbon and unbind them. The strip of silky fabric falls way, but their hands stay clasped, as is the tradition – Stiles and Peter indicating that they’re joined by choice. Stiles always thought it was cheesy as hell, but that doesn’t stop him tightening his grip on Peter slightly, just in case he accidentally lets go and gives the impression he doesn’t want to be here.

Peter’s grip tightens as well, and Stiles smiles to himself.

* * *

There are photos first, and after that there are canapes in the garden, and flutes of champagne, and an opportunity to mingle with the guests. The first chance he gets, Stiles tugs on Peter’s arm and nods to Jeremy and his companion. “Who’s that?”

“That’s Deucalion and his mate Jeremy. Deuc and I work together on the council – he’s in charge of the finance department. We’ve become good friends over the years.”

Deucalion’s approaching even as they speak, Jeremy at his side, one hand resting on his alpha’s arm. Peter extends a hand to shake it, but Deucalion shakes his head. “A handshake at your mating, Peter? I think not,” and proceeds to pull him into a rough hug.

Peter sputters in protest, but Deucalion laughs and pulls him closer before releasing him. “Congratulations. And this is your mate?” He turns his attention to Stiles. “Deucalion Blackwood. Lovely to meet you.”

Stiles is pleased to be addressed directly. “Stiles. Stiles Stili –‘ He stops mid-sentence, because that’s not who he is, not anymore.

Jeremy lets out a soft laugh. “It takes a while. I was still signing my old name a month after our mating.”

Deucalion busses a kiss over the top of his head and smiles fondly. “Jeremy tells me he’s met you.”

Stiles nods, and then gives Jeremy frantic eyebrow signals that he hopes translate as _“please don’t tell my mate I bought underwear from you because I want it to be a surprise,”_ but which is just as likely to come across as _“I have a strong interest in Spanish dance, would you like to meet my chicken?”_

Jeremy, thankfully, is apparently fluent in frantic eyebrow, because he addresses Peter and and says, “May I steal Stiles away for a moment, Mr Hale?”

“Of course.” Peter kisses Stiles on the cheek and whispers, “Don’t be gone too long, lovely,” and then Jeremy’s leading him away to a secluded table under a nearby tree.

“Relax, I won’t tell him,” is the first thing out of his mouth, and before Stiles can even ask how he knew, he adds, “I’ve sold a lot of stuff to a lot of people, Stiles. Work stays at work.”

Stiles lets out a small sigh of relief. “I just don’t want to spoil the surprise.”

“Or get his hopes up and then feel bad about disappointing him if you change your mind?”

“It’s not – this is just an arrangement. There aren’t feelings involved,” Stiles protests.

“Mhmm. I’ll let you in on a secret. Deuc and I were mated purely because he had someone harassing him for a match and the only thing that would deter them was if he mated someone else. My mother caught wind and told him I was available, prepared the match before I’d even met him. It was meant to be an ‘arrangement’ as well.”

The very idea is terrifying to Stiles. “But what if he’d been awful?”

Jeremy shrugs. “If he’d been awful, my mother wouldn’t have offered me.”

“Still. You must have freaked out.”

Jeremy smiles, his eyes going distant. “I did, right until I met him. But he was an absolute gentleman, spent the evening talking to me and asking me what I expected from a match.” It sounds a lot like what Peter had done, Stiles reflects. Maybe that’s why he and Deucalion are friends – they’re cut from the same cloth. Jeremy’s still smiling that distant smile. “He told me that if I wasn’t interested there was no obligation to go ahead, but that he did find me charming and given the choice he’d like to proceed. Then he asked if he could kiss me. One kiss, and I was gone.”

Stiles snorts. “Right. Just like that.”

It seems implausible to him, but Jeremy nods. “Just like that. We had a connection, pure and simple. We’ve been together five years now.”

“Wow.” Stiles takes a minute to get his head around that. It sounds like something out of a trashy romance, honestly, but Jeremy seems happy enough. “Five years? And no pitter patter of little feet?” It’s uncommon enough that he can’t help but ask.

Jeremy shakes his head. “Deuc and I have talked, and he knows I’m not interested in a family yet. We’ve decided in another year, maybe.”

Jeremy casts a glance over to where Peter and Deuc are still talking, and the affection he feels is obvious. He turns his attention back to Stiles. “Anyway, what I’m saying is, you might be surprised at how well this works out.” He leans in close and whispers, “And wear the lingerie, okay?”

That startles a laugh out of Stiles and it must catch Peter’s attention, because he stops a passing waiter and then walks towards them, two champagne glasses in hand. Jeremy gives Stiles a nod and walks back to Deucalion, who greets him with a kiss. You’d never guess from looking that they weren’t childhood sweethearts, Stiles reflects.

Peter offers him one of the glasses and Stiles takes it, enjoying the crisp taste and the coolness on his dry throat. They meander among the guests, shaking hands and making small talk, and Peter takes every chance he gets to feed Stiles a morsel of something, smirking as he tells him, “Open wide for me, there’s a love.”

They work their way around to Peter’s family, who are more relaxed and far chattier than last time Stiles met them, probably partly due to the three empty champagne bottles Stiles spies at their table. They all have that biting wit though, just like Peter does, and Stiles finds he likes it. After a few minutes of small talk, Talia snags another bottle from a passing waiter. She pulls Peter into her side, lifts her glass, and laughingly proclaims “A toast! To finally finding someone who’ll put up with your nonsense, little brother.”

Derek bursts out laughing at that, and Stiles almost goes into shock. Beneath the scowl and eyebrows, it turns out Derek’s hiding a _fucking sunshine smile_ and bunny teeth. He’s freaking adorable.

Derek’s whole face has been transformed. He looks less like an angry god ready to raze the earth, and more like someone who knits his own sweaters and probably adopts kittens. Once he’s over the change, Stiles can’t help but tease him. “Wow, Derek. You should smile more often. You’re making me question all my choices right now.”

Derek cocks an eyebrow at him. “Oh? Maybe you picked the wrong Hale, huh?” There’s a flurry of suppressed giggles from his sisters, and Talia’s grinning as well.

Peter just rolls his eyes. “What a shame, nephew. You’re too late.”

“I dunno,” Stiles says, cocking his head. “We aren’t bonded yet, there’s still time. I could just swap you out.”

The smile falls from Derek’s face, and Stiles is about to ask what’s wrong when he catches sight of Peter’s thunderous expression. Peter wraps an arm around Stiles’s waist, pulling him close. “If you’ll excuse us,” he says coldly, practically dragging Stiles as he stalks off in a huff. 

Stiles hurries to keep up as he’s pulled along, Peter’s grip like steel. “Hey, what gives?” he demands, as Peter steers him into a secluded gazebo away from the guests, and that’s when Peter backs him against a post, tugs his tie loose, and buries his face in the crook of Stiles’ neck. He takes a deep, shaky breath, then another, then another. When he lifts his head, Stiles gets a good look at his face. Peter’s whole face is a mask of disapproval. “Peter,” Stiles asks carefully, “Are you - _jealous?_”

“Jealous?” Peter snaps. ”Why would I be jealous? Just because you’re flirting with the guests at our reception, in front of everyone?”

“We were just kidding around,” Stiles protests.

Peter growls out in an undertone. “Some things aren’t funny, Stiles.” He almost sounds – hurt? Stiles isn’t sure why he would be, though. It was just some harmless fun, but it seems to have affected Peter far more deeply that Stiles would have thought. Why does Peter even care?

Peter presses against Stiles, tugs his collar open further, and the scenting becomes something else. Peter works his way up Stiles’s neck with a series of increasingly wet kisses, until he settles on a spot just under his jawline and latches on, sucking and biting relentlessly.

Peter’s alpha pheromones are rolling off him in waves, almost bowling Stiles over, and he actually goes weak at the knees. The closeness of Peter’s body as he brackets Stiles against the post, the scrape and sting of his teeth as he nibbles and worries at the flesh, send a jolt of want straight to Stiles’s…well, suffice to say, he’s wet where he wasn’t wet before. Still, he bats ineffectually at Peter, panting out, ”Peter, wait.” Not because he wants him to stop, but because if he keeps going Stiles is going to end up begging for more.

Peter pulls back. He rubs a thumb over the spot on Stiles’s throat, and Stiles can tell there’s a sizable bruise there. Peter makes a satisfied sound. “No mistaking that you’re taken now.” His tone is filled with a dark satisfaction.

“What?” Stiles pushes Peter away, suddenly realizing what Peter’s done. He rubs his own hand over the throbbing spot on his neck. It’ll show, even when he does his tie up. Lust is still coursing through his veins at the display of dominance, the touch of skin, but it’s warring with a rising irritation at being treated like a possession. He’s not sure which emotion will win out, although if he’s honest, Lust has a slight edge right now.

Peter cocks an eyebrow. “You were mocking me. I needed to mark you as mine,” He looks _so fucking smug_.

At his proprietary tone, Irritation comes blazing up the home stretch and takes it home by a country mile, leaving Lust trailing far behind. “So what, you fucking licked me to mark me as yours? Jesus, Peter.” Stiles shoves Peter in the chest with one finger. “Is that how this is going to go? I can’t talk to an attractive alpha now, or you’ll drag me off and go all caveman? Cause let me tell you, that’s not gonna fly.”

Peter blinks slowly, as if coming out of a haze. “No, I- “ He takes a deep breath, tries again. “It was instinct. The sight of you and Derek flirting – “

“Derek was _joking_. And so was I,” Stiles says coldly. “I’m insulted that you think so little of me that you assume I can’t be trusted. How will you cope when I’m at college, surrounded by alphas all day?”

“I’ll cope just fine, if you don’t run around offering to _swap me out,_” Peter snaps, making air quotes. Stiles flinches, because it sounds bad when he hears it said back like that. Peter glares at him as if waiting for a reply, hands on hips. The tension builds between them, and Stiles wonders if this is going to turn into some sort of screaming match. It must be some kind of record, he thinks miserably. Mated for two hours and already at each other’s throats. It doesn’t bode well. 

Something his dad said tugs at his memory. _‘God help the pair of you when you argue.’_ Stiles lets out a sigh. “Wow. We’re really off to a flying start as a couple, huh?”

Peter’s shoulders sag, and he runs a hand through his hair. He closes his eyes, and Stiles could swear he’s counting to ten. Finally, he speaks. “Let’s try this again. Stiles, I’m sorry. I overreacted.”

And that’s not what Stiles was expecting at all. But he takes the chance to make his point, because if they’re going to live together, he’s determined to nip this possessive bullshit in the bud. “You kind of did. I’m not a thing. You don’t get to treat me like one.”

Peter slumps, eyes downcast. “I might have gone too far, marking you like that,” he admits, hands jammed into his pockets. “But tell me, how did you think I’d feel, you suggesting you’d sooner mate my nephew than me? I was standing right there, for god’s sake. It was disrespectful to me as your alpha.”

Stiles wants to say that it doesn’t matter, that he was just kidding, but he doesn’t. He’d like to say Peter’s making a big deal over nothing, but he doesn’t do that either. Instead, knowing they’re in this for this long haul, he takes a minute to think about it. He considers how it must have looked to outsiders.

Peter Hale, dyed-in -the-wool bachelor, finally mates with someone, fifteen years his junior no less. Said mate _immediately_ implies he regrets his choice and would sooner have mated Peter’s nephew. At the reception. In front of his new mate and their guests.

Oh.

Stiles maybe-definitely crossed the line. He might have to own this one. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I didn’t think.” He pauses, reaches a hand out and places it on Peter’s arm. “I’ve been known to let my mouth run away from me before now.”

The tightness around Peter’s eyes eases a little, and his mouth twitches. “You don’t say?”

“Uh huh. Shocking, right?”

Peter uncurls a little more, and that’s a definite hint of a smile. “I’d say you definitely picked the right Hale. Derek had a lucky escape. He’d never cope with your shenanigans.”

Stiles snorts. “Shenanigans?”

Peter takes his hands from his pockets and slowly, cautiously, drapes them around Stiles’s neck. “_Shenanigans,_” he whispers softly, before leaning in and kissing Stiles, slow and sweet. He runs his thumb down the back of Stiles’s neck, the gentle pressure making the hairs there stand on end, and oh look, there’s Lust, making a late comeback and picking up speed.

Stiles kisses back, eyes closed. The kiss lingers, and Peter tastes of champagne. By the time they part, all Stiles’s earlier annoyance has melted away. He gives Peter his best wide-eyed look. “More, _alpha_?”

Peter’s breath hitches and he obliges, kissing him some more, mouth soft and lush and addictive. He backs Stiles up against the post again and this time when he lays a trail of kisses up Stiles’s neck it’s tender, delicate. Stiles whimpers, squirming at the sensations coursing through him. His body’s reacting without his permission, surrounded in the taste and touch of his alpha. All he knows is Peter – the warm skin of his hands as they settle on his hips, the heat of his mouth, the hard line of his body holding Stiles in place. Stiles can’t help himself, tangling his fingers in Peter’s hair and tugging him closer. Peter slips one hand under Stiles's jacket so it rests firm and sure in the centre of his back, then nips at Stiles’s earlobe with his teeth, and Stiles honest to god whines. Peter lets out a breath that’s not quite a sigh, pulls back a little, and rests their foreheads together. “Forgiven?” he asks softly.

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees, still caught up in the moment. “Can we get back to the kissing now?”

Peter looks decidedly regretful when he says, “Perhaps not.” Stiles pouts, but when Peter reaches down and adjusts himself, the thick line of his cock is obvious in his dress pants. “Sweetheart, it’s stop now, or scandalize the guests, and there’s no gear lever to keep you safe this time.”

“I guess.” Stiles lets out a gusty sigh that’s part regret, part relief. At least Peter’s still not mad at him. Reluctantly he unwraps his arms from around Peter’s neck and takes his hand instead. “Shall we go make nice with the guests? I promise I won’t hit on any of them.”

Peter rolls his eyes at that, but he keeps Stiles’s hand firmly in his as they make their way back. Stiles thinks about redoing his shirt and tie, but decides it’s not worth the effort and leaves it askew – everyone can see where Peter marked him anyway.

Peter’s family are watching them, something like concern on their features, but as they get closer, Talia’s expression brightens, and she giggles into the heel of her hand. “Oh my god Peter, did you mark your mate because you were having a hissy fit?”

“Not at all,” Peter replies smoothly. “I marked him because he’s irresistible.” You’d never know he was fuming only minutes ago. _Politician_, Stiles thinks dimly, distracted because Peter’s wrapped an arm round his waist now and is nuzzling in close, and it’s pretty nice.

Talia’s expression softens. “I’m glad to see you mated to someone you like.”

“Thank you.” Peter’s smile becomes something wicked as he addresses his nephew. ”Also, Derek? If I ever catch you flirting with my mate again, I will personally sneak into your room at night and shave your eyebrows off.”

The ridiculousness of the threat eases any lingering tension, and at the look of horror on Derek’s face, Stiles can’t help cackling. “Oh my god, you would too.”

“In a heartbeat,” Peter says, and Stiles suspects he’s not even remotely kidding.

* * *

The thing about a morning mating ceremony is that everyone’s ready to leave by three, Peter included. He notes that Stiles is also looking decidedly antsy, and he doesn’t blame him. They need some time alone.

After their earlier falling out and making up, they’ve stayed close, and Peter notes that Stiles has made a concerted effort to watch what he says, to treat Peter with respect. He appreciates it - he’s not sure he could cope with another emotional roller coaster today.

The strength of his own reaction stunned him, honestly. He knows, logically, that Stiles was just kidding around and so was Derek. But his alpha side had wanted nothing more then to tackle Derek to the ground and make him submit and then throw Stiles over his shoulder and carry him off like the spoils of war. 

Leaving a mark where everyone could see had satisfied his primal urges, but then it had led to a stupid argument. And it could so easily have turned truly ugly – Peter will acknowledge that he and Stiles both like to be right. But then something in Stiles’ stance had softened, and he’d sounded almost forlorn at the fact they were fighting, so Peter had taken the time to rein in his temper, and apologized. (Even though he was in the right. Mostly.)

And Stiles, for his part, had admitted the error of his ways, and there’d been that delightful little kiss-and-make up session that Peter would have happily continued, except that he knew if they continued, he wouldn’t be satisfied with just kisses. At least Stiles had been as desperate as he was. Peter hopes he’s still enthusiastic by the time they get home.

They’re not staying at a hotel. Stiles had shyly admitted that it would freak him out, the thought that the fire alarms might go off or that someone else might walk into their room, and that he’d rather go back to Peter’s – their - place, where their privacy's guaranteed. Peter had been quietly thrilled at the thought of taking Stiles for the first time in their house, in their bed.

There aren’t many guests left, so it’s not considered rude when Peter and Stiles make their farewells. Deucalion’s mate leans in and whispers something in Stiles’s ear as he passes and whatever it is, it makes his eyes go wide before he bursts out laughing. Peter’s afraid to ask.

Of course, there’s some good-natured ribbing about it being a hell of an early night which makes Stiles blush prettily, and it’s probably mean of Peter to start humming _Afternoon Delight_, but he does it anyway, just to see Stiles blush harder. Stiles elbows him in the ribs, but he’s grinning at the same time.

They make the drive home and it’s strangely awkward. They both know what’s coming, but neither of them mentions it. Stiles does pull his tie off as soon as he’s in the car, and Peter has to resist the urge to lean in and lick a stripe up his throat.

Patience, he tells himself.

Soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know - trust me, I know.  
But this chapter already got far longer than expected, and if Peter has to wait for his claiming night, so do you.  
Just a little longer, I promise.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claiming night. It's a wild ride all round.

When they arrive at <strike>Peter’s</strike> their place, Stiles shouldn’t be surprised when Peter offers to carry him over the threshold. And Stiles lets him, because his romance-loving heart warms at the idea, and Peter already knows he’s a sap so there’s no point trying to hide it.

He’s not prepared for Peter’s sheer strength when he lifts Stiles like he weighs nothing, or for the way his insides go all gooey as he’s carried laughing over the threshold. It thrills him more than he thought it would, and the pleased look on Peter’s face when Stiles kisses him on the cheek just makes Stiles melt further.

Peter sets him down gently and Stiles takes a shaky breath. He knows what happens next, and anticipation thrums in his veins. And other places. Actually, there are parts of Stiles thrumming that have never thrummed before. Peter cups his face in one hand. “I’ve wanted to do this since you took your tie off.” He leans in and licks a wet stripe up Stiles’s neck, slow and deliberate, and Stiles squirms away.

_“Really?”_

“Mmm. You smell of sugar and citrus and unsatisfied arousal, and I can taste traces of it on your skin.” Peter’s hands skim down the front of Stiles shirt as if he’s planning to unbutton it, and it occurs to Stiles that if he does, he’ll see what Stiles is wearing underneath, and Stiles doesn’t want him to see it _quite_ yet. He places his hands atop Peter’s, stilling them.

“Can we, um – are we doing this now?”

Peter’s eyes are dark with lust. “I was hoping so, yes.” He starts peppering Stiles’s face with butterfly kisses, and Stiles is distracted by Peter’s alpha scent for a minute, breathes it in deep because it’s so damn intoxicating, but then he pulls back.

“Can I go freshen up first? I need – “ he hesitates, not sure if there’s a nice way to say _I need to make certain I’m not sweaty and gross before you fuck me._

Peter seems to understand anyway. “Of course, sweetheart. Take your time.” Stiles goes to step away, but Peter catches his wrist and drags him in for one last long, filthy kiss that makes Stiles’s head swim and his cunt throb. He could happily stay here doing this for days, but he reluctantly pulls back. He can have more kisses later.

“I won’t be long,” he promises, and leaves Peter standing there looking slightly bereft. He ducks into the ensuite, hears footsteps as Peter follows him into the bedroom. Somehow knowing that Peter’s on the other side of that door, that there’s nothing else separating them, just intensifies his anticipation.

Stiles strips out of his suit and underthings, taking a minute to examine the bruise on his throat. It’s impressive. He eyes the washcloth for barely a second before deciding that it’s not gonna cut it, not for this. He turns on the shower and when the water’s running hot he steps in. A pleased moan leaves him – the water pressure’s heavenly, the temperature perfect. He picks up Peter’s bodywash, knowing it will please his alpha if Stiles smells like him. He soaps himself up and rinses off, spending far more time than he normally does on the apparently mystical slit between his legs, the one nestled behind his balls. Washing turns out to be a pointless exercise anyway – as fast as he rinses away the slick gathering there, more appears.

Stiles closes his eyes and lets himself explore, presses his thumb just inside himself so it’s skimming the sensitive bundle of nerves nestled right at the entrance, shuddering at the intensity of the touch. He feels himself getting wetter, and his cock hardens. There are a lot of downsides to being an omega, but one of the benefits is that apparently Stiles gets to come both ways. As they’d left the reception Jeremy had whispered in his ear “Just remember what they say - if your alpha knows what he’s doing, you get to squirt _and_ spurt,” and Stiles had nearly choked on his tongue.

Stiles reluctantly pulls his hand away from between his legs, purely because his nice new underwear isn’t built to hold an erection, and he doesn’t want to bring himself off – it seems wrong, when Peter’s right there. He lets the water run over him until his cock softens again, then steps out and dries himself. He has no idea how long he’s been in here, but he doesn’t want to keep Peter waiting – hell, he doesn’t want to keep _himself_ waiting. He wrangles his hair into an approximation of its normal style, swiping some of Peter’s hair gel. (That man has so much hair product. _So much_. Seriously.) Then he slips on the boyleg panties and half-cami combo – it’s the length of a crop top, but it’s not tight, instead it’s been cut to sway over the bottom of his ribs, leaving his belly bared.

He adds the garter belt because why the hell not, and after a moment’s consideration, he digs in the pocket of his suit for the present Jeremy had slipped him earlier. He fixes the slim velvet choker around his neck, fiddling with it as he stares at himself in the mirror. 

It’s not a feminine look exactly, but it’s definitely pretty. The deep scarlet satin sets off his pale skin, making it look like fine porcelain. The added touches of the choker and the garter just add to the illusion of delicacy, and Stiles almost wishes he could take a picture just to rub in the faces of all the people who told him he was ‘just built wrong for an omega.’

He’s still contemplating his reflection when there’s a hesitant tap at the door. “Stiles? Are you all right, sweetheart?”

Stiles wants to reply, but his mouth’s suddenly dry. Peter must take his hesitation the wrong way because he says, “Stiles, I know it’s expected that I'll claim you tonight, but if you’re not ready, I’d hate to force you into anything. We can wait.”

Hearing that spurs Stiles into action. He doesn’t want to wait. That’s the _opposite_ of what he wants. He wants Peter to claim him, wants to experience all those things that he’s only heard about. “No! I’ll just be a second!” His voice comes out louder than he intended and echoes off the bathroom tiles, and Stiles cringes at the sound of his own desperation. “I’m coming out,” he says, quieter. He takes one last look at himself and is assailed by doubt. Maybe he doesn’t look sexy. Maybe he just looks stupid. Maybe he should put his suit back on. “Just – don’t laugh, okay?”

“Why on earth would I laugh?” Peter sounds concerned. “Sweetheart, what is it?”

Stiles takes a deep breath, decides _fuck it,_ and pulls the bathroom door open.

When Peter sees Stiles he freezes, mouth hanging open. He looks Stiles up and down then closes his eyes, breathing deeply, and Stiles is suddenly, unshakably convinced that Peter’s unhappy with him.

_Red is for hussies_.

“I’ll – I’m sorry, I’ll take it off.”

At that, Peter’s eyes snap open and he stalks forward, backing Stiles against the wall and sliding his hands up under the satin, smoothing them over Stiles’s chest, thumbs brushing over his nipples. “No,” he growls. “_I’ll_ take it off. Every. Damn. Stitch.” He ducks his head and sucks at Stiles’s nipple through the satin, latching on and leaving a damp spot, moaning as he suckles and teases. It sends a thrill racing up Stiles's spine.

So, Peters _not_ unhappy, then.

“You - you really like it?” Stiles is slightly breathless.

Peter pulls his mouth away long enough to say, “Sweetheart, I love it.” He slides a finger under the thin strap of the cami, rubbing it back and forth across Stiles’s collarbone. “Who knew my mate would turn out to be such a delicious little minx?”

Stiles’s cheeks heat at the praise. “Wanted to look good for you,” he murmurs, confidence restored.

“Oh, lovely boy. Good doesn’t cover it. I want to _devour _you.” Peter grips both of Stiles’s wrists and holds them against the wall above his head, pressing their bodies together. He’s taken off his jacket and shoes and his shirt’s partly unbuttoned. Stiles gets a glimpse of a nicely muscled chest with a scattering of dark hair. Peter lowers his head and starts kissing along Stiles’s clavicle, grinding against him, and Stiles can feel just how pleased Peter is, the evidence a solid line of heat pressing into the crease of his thigh. He whimpers, and his panties get damp.

He can feel the curve of Peter’s mouth as he grins against his skin. Peter releases his wrists, and the next thing he knows, Peter's hands are under Stiles’s thighs, hoisting him up and carrying him to the bed. Stiles wraps his legs reflexively around Peter’s waist and loops his arms around his neck, grinning.

* * *

Peter deposits Stiles on the bed reverently, and then he just…stands there, watching Stiles intently. Stiles squirms under the scrutiny. “Peter?”

“Sssh pet, and just let me look at you. I’ve been dreaming of this.” Peter does sit on the edge of the bed through, running a hand across Stiles’s naked midriff. Stiles shivers under the delicate touch, and that seems to unlock something in Peter, because he touches Stiles again, but this time he splays both broad hands across his belly, rubbing the skin in an upward motion as he breathes out, “Fuck, baby. Skin’s so soft.”

Then Peter’s tugging at the buttons on his shirt, and out of the corner of his eye Stiles sees one pop and go flying across the room when Peter’s too impatient to undo it properly. Stiles sit up, reaches out and grapples with Peter’s belt, hands fumbling with nerves or desperation, he’s not sure which. Peter helps, and it takes next to no time to wrestle him out of his trousers. Peter pauses for a moment with his hands on the waistband of his boxer briefs, and Stiles gives a tiny nod.

Peter shucks his underwear down, and Stiles stares. Now it’s Peter’s turn to sound shy. “Is it all right?” he asks, quietly, and a part of Stiles wants to laugh, because what’s Peter going to do if he says no, switch his dick out for a spare? But Peter’s looking at him all hopeful, and it really is a nice dick. It’s a good length, thick in a way that Stiles knows instinctively will fill him up just right, but not so big that he wants to shy away from it.

“It’s – it’s pretty perfect, actually.” Peter’s face lights up at the assessment. Stiles stretches a hand out and runs a fingertip down the shaft. It’s warm and it throbs under his touch. He wraps a hand around it, and it’s strange, feeling dick skin that’s not his own. Peter makes a strangled sound, and then he’s pushing Stiles’s hand away and moving up the bed, bracketing Stiles beneath him.

Stiles cranes his neck, mouth open and seeking, and Peter doesn’t disappoint. His mouth is on Stiles’s in an instant, hot and desperate and perfect, and Stiles makes the most of it, secure in the knowledge that this time, they won’t have to stop.

They make out like horny teenagers for what feels like years and the whole time, feeling bold, Stiles runs his hands down Peter’s back, following the line of muscle, letting his fingertips trace patterns before settling in the small of Peter’s back, and it’s not even anything, just touching, but it still makes him slick and eager because Peter’s gorgeous, all tanned skin and muscle, and he belongs to Stiles now.

When Peter pulls away, his eyes are dark with want. Stiles starts to object to the loss of kisses, but then Peter slips a hand under Stiles’s cami and starts to tug it up over Stiles’s head. Stiles lifts his arms and Peter drags the item over his head and casts it aside without a second glance. He’s looking at Stiles with something like reverence in his eyes, and there’s no other word for what he does next.

He _pounces_. Stiles finds himself pinned flat as Peter buries his face in the crook of Stiles’ neck, rocking against him. Being held down like this does something to Stiles, makes his omega desperate and eager for more. His cock fattens as he ruts against the body above him, and he can feel the moment when the slow trickle of slick becomes a flood. His blood’s pounding, heartbeat loud in his ears, and Peter needs to do something, anything.

Stiles _wants_, and he whines.

Peter’s breath catches at the sound and he lifts his face from where it was nestled to ask, “Sweetheart, can I touch you?”

Stiles blinks, brain clouded with lust. Hasn’t Peter already been touching him? Stiles would like all the touch, thank you. But then a thumb slides into the elastic of his panties, and he gets it. Peter wants to _touch-touch_ him. He licks his lips and whispers, “Yes.”

Peter lets out something halfway between a curse and a prayer, before moving down the bed so he’s settled between Stiles’s legs, and then _oh so slowly_ sliding the panties down. Then he drags the garter belt off with his teeth, grinning wolvishly as he does so, and Stiles is left spread out naked and on display, wearing nothing but the velvet choker. Peter kneels back and runs his hands gently down Stiles’s ribcage. He lets out a long exhale, and Stiles fights the urge to pull his knees together and cover himself. Peter breathes out, “Gorgeous,” as he drinks in the sight of Stiles’s bare skin, and his lips curve up in a pleased smile. “I was going to ask if you really want this, but…” he dangles the satin underwear from a fingertip, and Stiles can see the damp patch on both front and back. “Ready for more, sweet boy?”

Stiles can’t speak, struck dumb, so he nods. There’s a fingertip sliding round his entrance, tracing the wetness there, and he lets out an involuntary squeal at the suddenness of it. Peter’s finger moves round and round, slow and steady and maddening. Stiles is torn between arching into the touch and pulling back, too much and not enough all at once. “You can – you can do more,” he gasps out.

“Oh, I intend to,” Peter promises, and he slides a finger inside.

_“Fuck!”_ Stiles swears, and his hips shoot upwards of their own accord, his body chasing more of the touch. Peter gives a dark chuckle, sinks his fingertip in a little deeper, and with his other hand he strokes at Stiles’ cock, setting a gentle rhythm. Stiles has to close his eyes and take deep breaths. It’s overwhelming. He’s already close, and Peter hasn’t gotten his dick anywhere near him yet.

“Shhh, that’s it, come for me, my good boy.” Peter speeds up his strokes, adding a twist and rubbing his palm over the head of Stiles cock and that’s it, between the sweet words and the sweeter touch Stiles is done, coming with a shout as his body shakes, a demand for more or for it to all stop, he’s not sure which. He bats at the hand on his cock and thankfully Peter gets the message, taking both hands away and then sliding up the bed next to Stiles and pulling him close. Stiles soaks up the touch, taking a minute to recover, and Peter doesn’t rush him, even though Stiles can feel his erection.

“You’re gorgeous when you come,” Peter murmurs against the skin of his neck, kissing there lightly. Stiles feels himself melt at the praise, and between the endorphins and the way he’s snuggled up close, he doesn’t think he’s ever been so relaxed in his life.

“ ’m a puddle. You made me a puddle,” he mumbles. Peter just grins, and grinds his hips forward. Stiles feels the slick slide of Peter’s cock against his skin, and when he reaches a hand between them, he finds his thigh smeared with pre-come. It’s wrong, he thinks muzzily. Peter’s come needs to be inside him. He _needs_ it. He clumsily reaches round and grabs Peter’s hand, dragging it down his body and nestling it between his legs. “Get me ready?”

Peter’s breath hitches, but he nods. “Better for knotting if I take you from behind. Roll over, there’s a good love.” Stiles rolls onto his front and splays his legs wide, and then Peter’s hands are on his hips and ass, rubbing and squeezing. There’s an urgent quality that wasn’t there before when Peter rasps in his ear, “Going to open you up sweetheart, get you ready for me, and then I’m going to claim you, knot that tight little cunt of yours.”

Stiles whimpers as Peter slides two thick fingers in right off the bat, and Peter croons, “That’s right baby, sing for me. Love those pretty noises you make. Can’t wait to hear you when I sink my cock inside.” 

Stiles never knew Peter had such a filthy mouth, and maybe he should find it degrading, but instead it just makes him crave more – more touch, more filthy promises, more _everything._ Peter gives his fingers a twist, drags them slowly back and forth across the sensitive bundle of nerves, and Stiles keens, humping against his hand, mindless with need.

He begs.

“Please alpha, please!” His arousal builds higher, and it’s different this time, strong and urgent, nothing like he’s ever felt before. It’s not like when he touches his dick, but a pulsing need deep inside, swollen and heavy like a stormcloud ready to burst.

“You want me in you?” Peter’s fingertips dance and tease over his clit.

_“Pleasepleasefuckme!” _ If his alpha doesn’t do something soon Stiles thinks he might die, unable to survive the building pressure, the wave of need that makes him twitch and writhe under Peter’s touch.

“Shhh. I’ll fill you up, baby.” Peter’s fingers are gone, and Peter’s voice is at his ear, and Peter’s body is pressed against his back. That’s the head of Peter’s cock brushing gently against his soaked hole, rubbing back and forth as Peter lines himself up. “Deep breath, sweetheart.”

It feels far bigger than Stiles remembers, and he’s not sure it will even _fit_, but he wants it anyway. He nods and takes a deep breath as Peter rolls his hips forward, seeking entry. At first Peter’s cock slips and slides off course and Stiles thinks that no, this can’t possibly work, that even as slick and open as he is he’s still not ready, but then Peter mutters to himself, pulls Stiles’s hips up off the pillow slightly, and _pushes_.

There’s a second of resistance, and then Peter’s sliding in, driving a groan from Stiles as he just keeps going, deeper and deeper, until Stiles feels like the very breath’s been forced from his lungs. They reach a point where it seems like Peter can't go any further, but then he pulls back out, and when he shoves forward it's all at once. He sinks in to the base and Stiles yelps at the sharp sting, but it’s nothing he wasn’t expecting, and Peter’s kissing the back of his neck and making soothing noises, and it’s not so bad, really. Peter remains still as the sharp pain fades, and finally Stiles gives a shaky nod. “ ‘s fine. You can move.”

“Oh, thank god.” Peter kisses the nape of his neck and then he _moves_, and Stiles’s eyes roll back in his head. It’s good, so good, as Peter rubs against all those nerves that Stiles never even knew were hiding up there, presses in against that bundle that makes Stiles shudder and shake. And when Peter draws back and plunges in again? _Holy fuck_. Somehow that’s even better.

Stiles doesn’t care that Peter’s forcing breathy little moans out of him with each thrust, doesn’t care that his legs are spread as wide as he can get them, doesn’t care about the muted squelching noise he hears every time Peter drives home, because this? This is bliss. He’s rocking back into the thrusts, whimpering as every nerve ending draws taut.

Stiles can feel another orgasm looming, but he doesn’t know how to get himself there, hasn’t ever come this way before, and in desperation he cries out “Please!” Peter’s hand slips between their bodies, and then clever fingers are dipping behind his balls, rubbing that spot and spreading the wetness, and the lightest of pinches drags Stiles screaming over the edge.

It’s like nothing he’s ever experienced, and Stiles arches his back and howls as sheer pleasure courses through his veins and his limbs start to shake. Wave after wave of exquisite bliss washes over him until he’s nothing but a trembling mess. He couldn’t hold himself up if his life depended on it, and he’s absurdly grateful for the pillow beneath him as he collapses into it. Peter follows close behind, still buried deep inside him.

A series of aftershocks makes his cunt pulse, and Stiles becomes aware that Peter’s talking, has been talking for a while now - only he’s not talking, he’s babbling._ “Oh my god Stiles, oh my god, this is – you’re – oh fuck, so good, baby, so tight for me, need to fill you up, gonna –“_ he breaks off with a grunt and a mighty thrust, one that moves Stiles’s lax body up the bed a good inch. Something’s there nudging at Stiles’s stretched-out cunt, and he’s already so full, can’t possibly take any more, but Peter grasps his hips, holds him in place and grinds in a rhythmic motion, forcing his knot inside, both of them whimpering at the pressure. “Need to knot you, stay _still,_” Peter hisses when Stiles instinctively tries to squirm away. Stiles goes lax - he wasn’t really going anywhere, anyway. Peter presses forwards and starts rocking, stuffing his knot deeper. “Oh, oh… Stiles…” his voice is breathy as he rolls his hips. He lets out a low growl and stiffens when his knot finally locks in place, and his body sags as he starts to come.

And come.

And come some more.

Stiles lays there and takes it, lets himself be fucked and filled. He can’t move away, but doesn’t really want to either, limp and sated under his alpha. The knot’s just this side of uncomfortable, but somehow immensely satisfying at the same time. Peter grinds in deeper, Stiles groans, and Peter kisses his neck gently. Stiles gives a full body shudder as _something_ runs through him, waves of hot and cold alternately, and he clenches convulsively around Peter's knot. The sensation tapers off and he's abruptly hit by a wall of exhaustion, every muscle relaxing. If Peter wasn't holding him, he'd probably slide right off the bed. Peter leans in, scents his neck, and gives a quiet hum of satisfaction. “That's it sweetheart. We're done. The mating's taken. You smell like _mine _now._”_

Huh. That must be what that was.

Peter rolls them onto their sides and Stiles lets Peter arrange him how he pleases. He doesn’t have any control over his limbs right now anyway. He can feel the knot still throbbing and pulsing inside him, can feel Peter’s hips making little twitching motions as continues to fill Stiles with his come. Stiles doesn’t think Peter’s even aware he’s doing it. Peter tucks an arm around him, holding him close, and places soft kisses on the side of his neck. “That was incredible. _You're_ incredible,” he murmurs, and Stiles smiles into the pillow. His alpha’s pleased with him, and the warm feeling he gets from that’s almost better than the sex.

Almost.

* * *

“Peter?”

Peter’s eyes fly open, and it takes him a second, but then he remembers. He’s in bed, and he has Stiles in his arms. His _mate._ They’re still locked together after the most incredible sex of Peter’s life.

Their mating was everything he’d dreamed of and more. He’s absurdly proud of the fact that he didn't give in and just pick Stiles up and fuck him against the wall when he first saw him in that underwear. It was a closer call than he’d like to admit. His baby was so pretty, so shy, and Peter wanted to scoop him up, tear every stitch off him, and ravage him right there. But he’d carried him to the bed like a prize instead, and he’d stayed in control, taken his time, and in the end, it was worth it to hear Stiles fall apart and beg.

Peter’s never been as happy as he is right now, and he’d like to stay here, warm and content and curled up together for the foreseeable future, but Stiles is wiggling and elbowing at him, and it’s tugging at the knot. “Mmm?”

“How long does this last?”

“I’m not sure, sweetheart. Why?”

“It – Peter, I think it’s stuck.”

He nuzzles at Stiles’ hairline and chuckles softly. “It’s supposed to be stuck, baby.”

Stiles shakes his head. “No, I know that. But it’s more than that. I swear it’s gotten bigger.”

Peter rolls his hips experimentally and finds that Stiles is right. It does feel like his knot’s bigger. He tries pulling back but Stiles yelps, so he stills. He’s not coming, but his knot’s not going down either. He eases a hand between them and probes gently at where they’re joined. It’s tender, like he’s bruised, and it's stuck tight. “I don’t know, sweetheart. I don’t know what this is.”

Stiles cranes his head to look at him. “Well I mean, has this happened before when you’ve knotted?” Peter raises an eyebrow and Stiles mouth falls open. “What, you’ve never?”

Peter shakes his head. “Never. I’ve only been with betas. This is as new for me as it is for you.” He shifts a little as he speaks, and doesn’t miss the way Stiles winces. “Stiles, are you in pain?”

Stiles lets out a hiss between his teeth. “Its fine if you don’t move. So _stop moving.”_

Peter obediently stops moving. “Better?”

Stiles lets out a relieved sigh. “Yeah. So, I guess we just wait this out?”

Peter snuggles in closer. If they’re stuck, he might as well make the most of it. “I'd say there’s _not _much choice, but that would be awful of me.”

Stiles snickers. “Really? You’re going there right now?”

“It’s_ not_ like you can stop me.” Stiles groans and Peter grins, burying his face in the nape of Stiles’s neck. He wonders if it’s terrible that he doesn’t mind this enforced closeness. Stiles’s scent has definitely changed, holds a hint of Peter now, and Peter’s finding it irresistible. “You smell like us,” he whispers, pleased.

Stiles hums in response. “Yeah?”

“It’s delicious.” He presses tiny kisses down the top of Stiles’s spine, but has to stop when he moves his lower half and Stiles tenses. “Sorry.” he carefully settles his hips where they were. “I’ll stay put.”

Stiles shrugs. “I guess we’ll just have to stay here all cuddled up. What a tragedy. Besides, how long can it last?”

* * *

Half an hour later, they’re asking the same question.

* * *

“You seriously can’t do something to make it go down?” Stiles asks, and there’s a thread of desperation there.

“What do you suggest I do, exactly?” Their predicament has gotten progressively worse as time’s passed. His balls ache, and his dick feels like it’s caught in a vice. The more stressed Stiles has gotten, the tighter he’s become, and his slick is all but gone, making moving almost impossible. Which is stressing him out more, and causing him to clench reflexively,and making him tighter again.

"You could give it a slap, see if that makes it go down?"

"No! Nobody is slapping anything!" Peter snaps. He can feel a tension headache coming on.

“Well, fine. I dunno. Don’t you have some lube around, so we can grease it up and work it out?” Stiles whines.

“Of course I have lube. It’s just…” Peter gestures vaguely at the bedside drawers that might as well be in China for all the chance he has of reaching them. Moving’s definitely not an option – they’ve tried. When his arm went to sleep where it was trapped under Stiles, they tried rolling over. It wasn’t a good time, with Stiles on the verge of tears, so they’d given up. And now everything hurts and there’s obviously something wrong with him, because why else would this be happening? He’s never heard of anybody else getting trapped inside their mate.

Stiles whimpers. “Peter, we’ve gotta do something. It’s really starting to hurt.”

Peter rubs a hand over his face, and tries to think. They need Stiles to relax, need some sort of lubricant. Peter has a feeling spit won’t cut it. He’s running a hand over Stiles’s belly when his fingers encounter his dried come from earlier, and he has a thought. “Sweetheart, what if we can get you to slick on your own?”

Stiles snorts. “Yeah, no. Not gonna happen.”

Peter moves his hand lower and wraps it around Stiles’s limp cock. “Could we at least try? If we can get you wet and relaxed, we might get somewhere.”

Stiles is silent while he thinks about it. Finally he says, “I mean, I guess we can try. But I make no promises. I feel as sexy as an old sock right now.”

Peter can relate – he feels like the matching sock, if he’s honest. But he doesn’t tell Stiles that. Instead, he forms his hand into a loose circle around Stile’s dick and murmurs in his ear, “There's my sweet boy. Shall I tell you about how much I've been looking forwards to this? To seeing your sweet body all laid out for me like a feast, to getting my hands on you?” Stiles cock gives a definite twitch, and Peter smiles to himself. He starts to rub his thumb down the length as he continues, “From the moment I first saw you, I imagined taking you to bed. I was going to take it slow, seduce you gently. Wanted to strip you bare and kiss every inch of you.”

“Uh huh?” Stiles’s voice is quiet, shy, and his cock hardens further.

“I wanted you so badly, sweetheart. I had dreams about you. I touched myself and thought of you. You’re like a drug, all pale skin and gorgeous eyes and soft pink lips. I couldn’t wait to bury myself inside you, make you come, watch you fall apart.”

Stiles gives a breathy moan at that, and his erection throbs in Peter’s hand. “Tell me I’m good?” Stiles pleads in a whisper.

That, Peter can do.

“So good,” Peter croons, “So perfect. Everything I could want. Pretty and clever and so eager to please, I’m so very happy with you darling.” Stiles lets out a tiny sigh of contentment, and the vice around Peter’s dick loosens slightly. Peter doesn’t mention it, just keeps stroking Stiles’s cock and uttering encouragement. “Such a pretty little dick, next time I’ll take it in my mouth, have you spurt across my tongue, carry the taste of you with me,” he purrs, and there’s no mistaking the way Stiles is getting wetter.

_“Alpha,”_ he moans, grinding his hips back, and there’s the slightest bit of movement around Peter's knot.

“I want you to come for me sweetheart. There’s my good boy, let me see you.” Peter moves his hand faster, tugs at Stiles’s earlobe with his teeth, and hopes it’s enough.

It must be, because Stiles’s hips jerk as he comes, tugging at the knot, but the movement’s not painful like before. Peter catches Stiles's release in his hand and shoves it between their bodies, spreading it around the part of the knot that he can reach and then, working on a hunch, he works a slippery fingertip into Stiles as gently as he can. Once it’s in it has the same effect as breaking a vacuum seal. There's a wet pop, and slick starts to dribble out. Stiles groans loudly.

“I know sweetheart, I’m sorry,” Peter soothes, knowing the worst of it isn’t over. “I’m going to try and get it out now, okay?”

“Yes, just – just do it,” Stiles urges through gritted teeth.

Peter doesn’t rush. He works the portion of the knot he can reach in and out in gentle thrusts a few times, making sure it’s good and wet and that Stiles is as loose as he can be, and then he slowly eases back, applying steady pressure. At one point he has to stop and it seems like it won’t work after all, but then Stiles takes a deep breath and does _something_, Peter has no idea what, and everything relaxes just enough that Peter can drag the rest of the knot out.

There’s a sucking sound, and they’re free. Peter rolls over onto his back, sighing in relief. “Oh, thank fucking god.”

Stiles make a noise of agreement, arm thrown over his eyes, breathing heavily. “That was…not what I expected,” he says finally.

“Trust me sweetheart, I know.” Peter runs a hand idly over his knot, which has finally had the decency to deflate, and hisses. It feels like it might be black and blue, but he’s honestly too afraid to look.

Stiles glances over at the sound, and Peter’s just about to ask how he is when Stiles starts grinning madly. The grin becomes a snicker, which turns into a snort, and before he knows it, Stiles is laughing fit to bust, curled over on himself and clutching his stomach.

“What’s so funny?” he demands, ever so slightly offended.

Stiles manages to sit up in bed, and flaps a hand in Peter direction. “It’s just. I mean, you’re a politician, and I knew you were good at talking your way out of things, but this? This takes the fucking cake.” He snorts inelegantly, and then he’s off again, letting out peals of laughter.

And, well. He has a point. It _is_ funny. Peter starts to laugh as well, before sitting up and tapping Stiles on the shoulder. “I’m known for my silver tongue,” he deadpans. “Perhaps later if you ask nicely, I’ll show you what else I can do with it.”

That just makes Stiles laugh harder.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! I had to put this to one side so I could work on my Steter Secret Santa, but now that's done and dusted we're back to this madness.  
Hopefully I've remembered how to write this mess!  
Unbetaed and written on the fly, so apologies for any typos as always.

Stiles drifts into consciousness, gradually becoming aware of the warm press of another body against his. It takes a minute, but then he remembers and smiles to himself. He and Peter got mated yesterday.

He squirms under the weight of Peter’s arm resting across his waist and goes to stretch, an unexpected ache shooting through him at the movement.

Oh. Right.

They _mated._

It had been simultaneously everything he expected and nothing at all like he imagined, Peter’s knot satisfying and terrifying all at once. And then they’d…Stiles bites his lip in an effort not to start laughing, because getting stuck had been horrible at the time, painful and almost panic inducing, but looking back, he can’t help but see the funny side of it. He’s sure his dad would laugh if Stiles told him.

Not that he’s going to tell him. Or anyone. Ever.

It would be far too embarrassing.

And after, Peter had taken such good care of him. He’d fussed and cooed and murmured apologies as he wiped Stiles clean, frowning at the specks of blood on the cloth, even when Stiles assured him it was normal, expected even. He'd been achingly tender in his ministrations, and Stiles had lapped up the care and attention.

Stiles is secretly kinda glad he can’t see what he looks like down there - he suspects he might freak himself out. It feels tender and stretched-out and bruised, and if the frown on Peter’s face had been anything to go by, it looks it too. Peter had been so concerned he’d even reneged on his promise to show Stiles what his silver tongue could do, which - Stiles won’t lie, he’s kinda bummed about.

Still. They’re mated. There’ll be other nights.

He drifts back off to sleep and the next time he wakes he’s alone in the bed. He barely has time to pout before Peter’s right there, carrying a tray loaded with coffee and breakfast and painkillers. “Good morning sweetheart. I have to go to work, but I wanted to be sure you were okay.” Peter sets the tray down and Stiles sees that there’s enough for both of them. It’s just fruit salad and toast and jam, but still. He appreciates the gesture. Peter scoots up the bed so he’s sitting against the headboard next to Stiles and holds out a glass of juice and the painkillers. At Stiles’s questioning look Peter says, “I’m still tender myself after last night, so I can only imagine how you’re feeling.” He winces as he shifts on the bed and gives a tiny, rueful smile. “I have bruising in places that should never have bruising.”

Stiles can’t help it – he snorts. “Bullshit.”

“Want to see?” Peter raises an eyebrow and Stiles blushes at the offer. He kinda does, truth be told, so he nods silently, and Peter eases the waistband of his sweats down, raising his hips so he can shuffle the pants down to his thighs. Watching him move in that graceful way of his has Stiles swallowing, mouth suddenly dry, but then he gets a glimpse of what Peter’s talking about and the barely formed thoughts of sexytimes fly out of his head.

Peter’s literally black and blue around the base of his cock. His red, swollen cock. Stiles hisses between his teeth. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry.”

Peter just gives an amused smile. “Why on earth are you sorry? It wasn’t deliberate.”

“Still.” Stiles curls his hands into fists so he doesn’t give into the temptation to poke and prod the sad looking member. He doesn’t think Peter would appreciate it. “That really does look painful.”

“Let’s just say I’ll be wearing my loosest pants to work.” Peter slides his sweats back up with an unfairly sexy shimmy. “And it was worth it, because it’s from being with you, sweetheart.”

Stiles warms under the praise. “Yeah, same,” he offers. “It was good. Apart from the - you know. Up till that it was great.” He hoards the pleased smile Peter gives him like a treasure, something to take out later and examine more closely.

For now, he drinks his juice and takes his pills, even though he’s pretty sure he could cope without them, and it seems to make Peter happy, if the murmured _‘good boy’_ and the hand stroking his cheek is anything to go by. They share the breakfast tray, and soon enough it’s time for Peter to leave. “I want you to rest today,” he admonishes as he gets ready for work. Stiles nods and bites his cheek to stop himself laughing when Peter gingerly zips his pants with a low groan.

“I will. I’ll stay in bed and look at college stuff on my laptop,” he promises. He can think of worse ways to spend a day.

* * *

Peter doesn’t even make it into his office - Deucalion’s leaning against his receptionist’s desk waiting for him. “Why, pray tell, are you here the day after your mating?” he asks, in that oh-so-superior way of his.

“As head of finance, you know very well why. We have budget meetings.” Peter attempts to get past him but Deuc shoots a hand out and grasps his wrist.

“Cancelled.”

Peter pulls up short. “Since when?”

“Since right now. Go home to your boy, Peter. After all, it’s not every day you get mated.”

“But - Stiles knows I’m working he’s fine with it,” Peter protests.

“And _I _know from experience that claiming can be intense, and that you two need to spend time together while the bond takes. So I rescheduled everything till Wednesday. The rest of the committee were frankly horrified you would even consider coming to work. Go home.”

Peter’s not used to being told what to do, and it shows. “People expect me –“

“_People _expect you to do right by your mate.” The corners of Deucalion’s mouth twitch up in a supressed smile. “I’m sure we can manage without your magnificence for a day or two. Stiles, on the other hand, is probably miserable and doesn’t know why. And I’d give it ten minutes before you start pining as well.”

Truth be told, Peter was pining before he’d driven to the end of their street, but he doesn’t tell Deuc that, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of being right. Instead he latches onto the other part of the conversation. “Stiles was fine when I left.”

Deuc lets go of his wrist and gives him a gentle shove towards the door. “Well if he’s fine, then you can enjoy each other’s company. But if you’d asked, I would have told you that you two will want nothing more than to be close right now. Take it from me, he needs you more than the finance committee right now. Mrs Brown and her costings for a community garden can wait.”

Peter’s not convinced - Stiles really did seem fine - but he also knows when he’s beaten. And if he’s honest, his balls ache. He thinks longingly of how good an ice pack would feel right now, and nods. “Then I suppose I’ll see you Wednesday.” He’s not sure why he’s so relieved.

His thoughts turn to last night as he drives home. He doesn’t know how it happened, why they got caught together the way they did, but he’s not in any hurry for it to happen again. Not that they’ll be doing anything like that for a few days at least - Peter would like nothing better than to spend hours fulfilling his fantasy of exploring Stiles’s body, marking his skin and making him beg before knotting him, but the throb and ache between his legs means it will have to remain just that for now – a fantasy. It would be cruel and unfair of him to demand anything from his mate when Stiles is, if possible, in a more delicate condition than he is. Peter wouldn’t blame Stiles if he shied away from the whole idea of sex altogether.

He pulls into the driveway and the tiny kernel of unease that has been steadily growing all morning eases right away, just at the thought of seeing Stiles, holding him, checking on his welfare. Dammit. He hates it when Deucalion’s right.

He grabs his briefcase and walks inside, heading straight to the bedroom to tell Stiles he’s taken time off. When he gets there though, Stiles isn’t in bed. He runs a hand over the sheets and they’re not quite cool, so he hasn’t gone far. He ignores the spike of panic, tells himself not to be so dramatic. He’s probably in the bathroom, that’s all. Peter pokes a head in the ensuite but it’s empty. He cocks his head, listening, and that’s when he hears it – a soft sniffle coming from the other bathroom, the big bathroom. 

He follows the sounds and knocks on the bathroom door. “Stiles? Are all right?”

There’s a splash, and then a hopeful-sounding, “Peter?”

Peter tries the handle. It’s unlocked. He opens the door and is greeted by the sight of Stiles sitting in the bath, eyes shining. Peter’s at his side in an instant, ignoring the tug and ache caused by his sudden movements as he drops to his knees. “What is it sweetheart, are you all right? Are you in pain?”

Stiles’s bottom lip quivers, and a fat tear rolls down his face. “I don’t know? You left, and then it was all too much and everything hurt, so I thought a bath might help, but I just – I missed you, and now I’m crying in the bath and you must think you mated a crazy person.” It all comes out in a rush, and Stiles looks so forlorn that Peter’s heart clenches.

“I don’t think I mated a crazy person. I think we both just underestimated the time it takes for the mating bond to settle. I missed you too, as soon as I left. That’s why I’m here.”

Stiles visibly relaxes. “They told us in health about how we’d be clingy after, but I always thought that was just alpha bullshit,” Stiles admits. “I was all, _‘I’m not like other omegas,’ _so I didn’t pay attention, didn’t think it would affect me.” He splashes listlessly with one hand. “Clearly I don’t know shit, because here I am, crying in a bathtub.” He sniffles. “You weren’t meant to see me like this.”

Peter’s overcome with a wave of something – affection? Empathy? He’s not sure, but suddenly he wants nothing more than to reassure his new mate. “It looks like a lovely bath.” He trails his fingertips over the surface of the water. “Nice temperature, too. Room for one more in there?”

Stiles blinks as he processes Peter's words, then gives him a tiny smile. “I guess. We’d have to cuddle up though.”

“Oh no, how awful for us.” Peter eases up off his knees and starts peeling out of his clothes, letting out a sigh of relief when he kicks his pants into the corner. “Perhaps I’ll stay naked till Wednesday.”

“Wednesday?” Stiles shuffles up the tub to make room behind him for Peter.

“Mmm.” Peter lowers himself into the water letting out a little groan of pleasure. “All my meetings were mysteriously cancelled, because Deucalion thinks he knows best.” The water’s warms and soothing, and there’s something in it that’s easing his aches.

“So – you didn’t want to come home?” Stiles tenses.

Peter pulls Stiles back against him, resting his chin on his shoulder. “Sweetheart, I was already pining. I don’t think I would have lasted half an hour. Deuc just made it easier for me.” He pauses long enough to bury his face at the curve of Stiles’s neck, to breathe him in. “In this case Deuc really did know best, but never, ever tell him that. He’ll be insufferable.”

Stiles snorts. “My lips are sealed. God forbid someone else be right.”

Peter ignores that, changing the subject. “What’s in this water, sweetheart? It feels amazing.”

“Epsom salts. Good for aching muscles.” Stiles leans back carefully. “This all right? not crushing your – y’know?”

It is, just a little, but Peter thinks the payoff of Stiles lying warm and pliant in his arms is a fair trade, so he shakes his head. “It’s fine.”

Stiles relaxes further. “I feel better now you’re here. Dumb, huh?”

“If it is, then we must both be dumb.” Peter soaks up the washcloth and begins running it gently over Stiles’s arms and chest, “because being near you is exactly what I needed.” Even as he says it, Peter knows it to be true. Taking care of Stiles, washing him and pampering him like this, is making all Peter’s alpha instincts hum with pleasure, and judging by the way Stiles is loose and pliant in his arms, it’s what he needs as well.

Peter has never put all that much stock in the whole ‘biological imperative’ thing, dismissing it as something for other people, not him. But he’s starting to think he may have been mistaken. Just then Stiles lets out a sigh of pure pleasure as Peter skates over his nipples with a washcloth, and the sound sends a jolt straight to Peter’s aching cock.

_Behave_, he reminds himself - but he still drags the cloth across the tight nubs again, in case Stiles makes that sound. He’s not disappointed.

“S’nice,” Stiles slurs out, and Peter sees that his eyes are half-lidded, cheeks pink from the warm water, and there’s a dopy smile on his face. He warms at the sight of his contented mate, pulling Stiles slightly closer. Stiles sighs again, struggling to keep his eyes open. “’m not normally this hopeless, I promise. I’m just -” he flaps a hand vaguely, sending droplets of water flying.

“It’s fine, sweetheart,” Peter soothes, biting back the urge to tell Stiles he’s adorable like this – he doesn’t think he’d appreciate it. “We’re both tired and at the mercy of our hormones, that’s all. Why don’t we have our soak, have something to eat, and then nap?” he suggests, a hand splayed across Stiles’s belly. Stiles nods in agreement and places his own hand on top of Peter’s, and there’s something inarguably right about it.

* * *

They make it out of the bath eventually, and Stiles insists on making them grilled cheese. “Gotta earn my Suzie Homemaker badge,” he jokes as he slides the sandwich out of the pan and onto a plate. 

Peter eyes the slightly burnt edges. “Points for trying?” he suggests.

Stiles shrugs and eats his sandwich.

* * *

“We’re just cuddling, right?” Stiles asks before they climb into bed. “Because I don’t think I can do anything else.”

“Just cuddling,” Peter assures him. He hesitates for just a second before asking,”Can I see?” At Stiles’s raised eyebrow he admits, “I just – I need to make sure you aren’t seriously hurt, that’s all.”

Stiles’s cheeks flush pink and he nods silently before settling himself on his back, knees spread wide and hands grasping at the blankets. Peter settles himself between Stiles’s legs and presses his knees up and out, lifting his limp cock out of the way and hissing between his teeth when he sees the state of Stiles’s poor, abused little cunt. It’s puffy and raw looking, dark red verging on purple, and the lips are so swollen that his hole’s completely hidden. Peter can’t believe he did this, that he was careless enough to damage his mate that way. He wants nothing better than to kiss it better and ask for forgiveness.

"I guess the fun house is closed for business, huh?” Stiles says wryly. “No way anything’s going in there anytime soon.”

Peter moves up the bed, settles on his elbows over Stiles and leans down and kisses his cheek. “I’m so sorry, sweet boy.”

Stiles turns his head so he catches Peter’s lips in a kiss, and when they part he says quietly, ”It’s not like it was deliberate. You’re just so big.”

Peter has to clamp down on the rush of irrational satisfaction he feels at the assessment of his size. It’s nothing to be proud of, hurting his mate. He wishes there was something he could do. At the thought, something at the back of his brain clamors for his attention, a comment made to him in passing about soothing the sting after a mating night. He wonders if there’s any truth to it, and decides it can’t hurt to try. “I did hear of something that might help, but it could be an old wives' tale,” he starts.

Stiles makes an interested noise, and Peter has to pause just to lean down and kiss him, helpless to resist those plush, parted lips, before he speaks again. ”They say that if an omega’s sore, it can help to get slick, promote healing.” Gods, he sounds like the worst sort of predator for even suggesting anything sexual, and he half expects Stiles to slap his face.

He doesn’t though, instead humming thoughtfully. “You know, those old wives knew their shit. What are you proposing exactly?”

And Peter, well. Peter hasn’t thought that far, has to stop and consider it. A myriad of possibilities dance through his head, and he has to stifle a groan as his cock tries and fails to harden, too bruised to be of any use. In the end he settles on something that won’t involve Stiles’s more tender areas, but should still get him wet enough to provide relief. “Can I put my mouth on that pretty little cock? Will that work?”

Stiles’s breath hitches and his face blazes red, but he shakes his head. Peter frowns at the response but Stiles is quick to clarify. “I mean you can, but you could also, y’know, kiss me? Just, spoil me a little?” His blush deepens.

Peter’s not sure why Stiles would be embarrassed at that - it sounds wonderful. He leans down so his mouth is close to Stiles’s ear, and whispers, “So I have your permission to taste you sweetheart, get you all soft and slick for me, make you feel better?”

Stiles lets out a tiny whine, which Peter takes as a yes. “Let me take care of you, see if we can’t ease the sting.” He starts to mouth softly down the column on Stiles’s throat, leaving a string of wet kisses that have Stiles tilting his head back and his eyes fluttering closed. He stops at Stiles’s clavicle to nip lightly at the tender skin there, which earns him a breathless moan and a hand in his hair, holding his mouth in place. Peter smiles against the mouthful of flesh - his baby likes that.

He follows Stiles’s silent command and works his way along the sharp jut of bone, sucking and biting, a row of tiny marks left behind like a series of calling cards. Stiles squirms under him, and the fingers in Peter’s hair loosen their grasp so Peter can lift his head. He takes the opportunity to move, slides down Stiles’ body and runs his hands down Stiles’s ribs, fingers dancing lightly. “You’re so pretty, sweetheart. Can’t believe you’re mine.” 

Peter leans in, licks and blows at Stiles’s nipples, watches them peak and harden as Stiles squirms under his touch. He kisses down the soft skin of his belly, ignoring the image his brain tries to supply of Stiles fat and swollen with their offspring. That’s not what their mating is about. Still, he presses his thumbs into the flat belly, a wave of visceral pleasure washing over him at the very idea of someday, maybe.

He shakes his head to clear it a little. He needs to focus. He’s here for Stiles’s pleasure, not his own. Stiles’s hips are rolling into his grip, seemingly of their own accord, and Peter takes it as a good sign. He kisses his way down one hip because his traitorous mouth simply can’t stay away, and when he gets to Stiles’s cock he’s gratified to find it fully hard.

He flicks his tongue over the head, catches the dribble of precome there, and then swallows the whole thing down without warning. Stiles shouts out a curse and Peter grins to himself - it’s exactly the reaction he was hoping for. He works slowly up and down the shaft, licking and teasing, and gods, it fits in his mouth so well, even hard it’s barely a mouthful. The hands are back in his hair, and the Stiles is shuffling back, pulling his knees up and opening wide to give Peter more room, the scent of omega slick sharp in the air.

Peter doesn’t take his mouth away, but he does sneak a hand between Stiles’s legs, fingertips brushing whisper-soft against the skin there and coming away wet. Stiles moans at the touch but doesn’t pull back, so Peter leaves his hand there. There’s something unspeakably erotic about it, the warm trickle of slick dripping onto his fingers as Stiles pants and gasps and rocks into his mouth, and Peter’s cock once again tries and fails to rise to the occasion.

He pulls off to tease the head of Stiles’s cock with the tip of his tongue, reveling in the needy sounds coming from the body beneath him. He runs a thumb over the crease of Stiles’s sex, pressing in slightly, and he’s stunned when Stiles’s body opens for him and his thumb sinks into the plush heat. Stiles lets out a low groan, gasps out, “Peter, _please_,” and presses back onto his hand.

Peter lifts his head. “Is it helping, darling?” He feels like he should check, and hopes to god the answer’s yes, because he’s incapable of stopping now.

Stiles nods vigorously. “So good, need more,”

“More?”

“More - more fingers.” Peter's happy to oblige. He pulls his hand back and sinks a finger inside, making sure to brush against the nerve cluster there, and is gratified at the amount of slick that follows his finger when he slides it gently out. “Mmm, ‘s good, feels good,” Stiles pants, and Peter feels slightly less like a monster for suggesting this now, seeing his boy writhing in obvious pleasure. He continues to slide just one fingertip in and out at a leisurely pace, the rhythm a counterpoint to the way his head bobs up and down as he works Stiles's cock with his mouth. He closes his eyes and concentrates, doing his best to read Stiles’s body, learn what he likes. Stiles’s hips are rolling furiously as he chases Peter’s mouth and his hand, and Peter speeds up his movements accordingly. He barely gets a second’s warning, the hand in his hair tightening, before Stiles is coming down his throat. Peter doesn’t hesitate to swallow – he did promise Stiles he’d carry the taste of him on his tongue, after all.

Stiles sags beneath him, boneless. Peter still has a finger buried inside him, but Stiles reaches down and bats at his hand, and Peter withdraws slowly, carefully. His hand's soaked, and he can’t help the wave of satisfaction that rolls over him. Stiles is _dripping._

For a minute there’s silence except for Stiles’s harsh breathing, and then he lets out a long _‘fuuuuuuuck.’ _He sounds as if all the word's been dragged from him, and once again a possessive pride rears up in Peter’s chest. _He_ made Stiles fall apart like that._ Him._

The hand in his hair starts to stroke gently, and Peter drops his head forward, hungry to feel the fingertips brush against the nape of his neck. Stiles obliges, and Peter takes the contact as his reward for a job well done. Finally, Stiles mutters, “Old wives, man. They know shit.” He takes his hand away and struggles to lean up on his elbows, looking down the bed at Peter, who’s sprawled across Stiles’s stomach, soaking up the skin on skin contact. “What about – do you?”

He gestures vaguely, but Peter understands and shakes his head. “No need, sweetheart. I don’t think I even could,” he admits.

Stiles scrunches up his face in discontent. “That seems unfair, you doing that for me and not getting something out of it.”

Peter raises an eyebrow. “I got plenty out of it. I got to see you fall apart, and I got to help you feel better. It did help, right?”

Stiles nods. “It really did. Everything feels much…" he trails off, tilting his head as he thinks. “Looser? Softer? Better, anyway. It must be a chemical thing, but it doesn’t ache as much.”

Peter presses a kiss to Stiles’s hip. “Good to hear.” He looks up again at Stiles, who’s gorgeous with his bedhead and flushed skin, and adds, “If you need me to help again, you only have to ask.” Like it was any kind of hardship.

Stiles’s grin widens. “Oh, we’ll definitely need to do it again. For health reasons." 

* * *

Peter spends the next morning with his face buried between Stiles’s thighs, eating him out until he’s shaking, and then fingering him until he comes twice and begs for mercy.

Afterwards Stiles calls him a silver-tongued bastard, and that evening he demands they do it again.

All in the name of good health, of course.

* * *

On Wednesday, Peter scowls at his suit.

He has to go back to work, and he most decidedly doesn’t want to. The mating bond’s still fresh and raw, pulling at him without any kind of regard for his obligations, and there’s nothing he can do to stop it. The thought of leaving Stiles makes him sick to his stomach.

It’s been wonderful exploring Stiles’s body, yes, but even being in the same room as Stiles has been a balm to his soul. They spent yesterday evening with the laptop propped in front of them on the kitchen table, sorting through college courses and selecting options, and it had been strangely satisfying to know that Stiles was getting to fulfil his dream purely because of Peter.

Peter frowns at his shirts, trying to decide what he can wear that will exude a vibe of _‘Don’t talk to me’_ so he can get home sooner. There’s the soft sound of a throat clearing, and a hand on his arm. “Peter?”

Peter turns, and Stiles is standing there looking lost. “Am I pathetic if I don’t want you to go?”

Peter folds Stiles into his arms with a sigh. “It depends. Am I pathetic for not wanting to go either?”

Stiles sighs where he’s buried his head in the crook of Peter’s neck, and grumbles out a muffled, ”Fucking hormones.” Peter doesn’t think Stiles meant the desperation to show in his tone, but he picks up on it anyway, and makes a snap decision. He’s never taken a sick day in his life unless he was close to dying, but there’s a first time for everything.

He untangles himself from Stiles’s grasp, walks over to his phone and dials. “Deuc, it’s me. Can you – “

‘Postpone the meetings, you won’t be in?” Deuc sounds far too amused for Peter’s liking. “I already did.”

“What? Why?” Peter’s momentarily taken aback.

“Because I knew you’d need more time with your omega.”

“You can’t have known. I didn’t know.”

Deuc has the gall to actually laugh. “You’re not as special as you think you are, Peter. I bet you’re crawling out of your skin at the thought of leaving him.” Peter remains silent, not wanting to give Deuc the satisfaction of being right, but he seems to guess anyway. “Thought so. The older you are when you bond, the harder it hits. You can’t fight biology.” 

That gives Peter pause. He’s heard it before, but surely it doesn’t apply to him. He’s not _old_, thank you very much. “When have you moved everything to?” he asks brusquely.

“Next week. Nobody was expecting to see you, trust me.” Deuc laughs again, and it grates on Peter’s nerves, almost overshadowing the relief he feels at his extra freedom.

Almost.

“Fine. I’ll be in on Monday, but you can stop laughing, dammit, or I’ll demote you back to waste management.”

“Say hello to Stiles for me,” Deuc singsongs, and has the absolute hide to hang up.

Peter turns to find Stiles watching him and beaming. “Did your staff just kick you out of the office, Mayor Hale?”

“Apparently they think they know what I need better than I do.” Peter would be annoyed, but Stiles is sashaying towards him, hips swaying, and then his arms are draped around Peter’s neck, and he’s kissing Peter softly.

“I’m glad,” he says quietly. “I need you close.” A hand traces over Peter’s chest, fingertips playing in the hair there.

Peter sets his hands on Stiles’s hips, letting his thumbs trace patterns as he soaks up the contact, and wonders how, exactly, he’s meant to keep control of himself when Stiles is so tempting. It’s almost like he’s doing it on purpose, trying to tease Peter into ravaging him. His own bruising’s nearly gone, and he wants nothing more than to tease Stiles till he begs, make him come so often he can’t move, and then fuck him full to bursting.

He won’t, though. After the disaster that was last time, he can’t hurt Stiles again.

He’s not his father’s son.

He’ll just have to keep his knot to himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Swear to god, there wasn't meant to be smut. But Peter.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles enjoys his extra measure of independence, and Peter continues to be an absolute paragon of self control.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy new year folks! I'm posting this sleep deprived and hungover because really, is there any other way to start the year? As always, all typos are a problem for future me.  
(In a completely unrelated PSA, if anyone ever offers you shots of Brazilian Cachaca, politely decline and back away.)

Stiles can’t believe he’s doing this.

It’s almost embarrassing. Yet here he is, acting like a besotted fool, sniffing his alpha while he sleeps. It’s a goddam cliché, something you’d see in a trashy hallmark film, the sort he’s always scoffed at. But Peter just smells _so damned good_, and he can’t resist the urge to press his face into the curve of Peter’s neck and fill his nostrils with the scent of pine and woodsmoke and sex. He snuffles contentedly, and decides he’ll be embarrassed later – for now, he’ll give in to what his body’s telling him.

His uncontrollable need to be near Peter’s tapering off, thankfully, but Peter’s still incredibly attractive, and Stiles would have to be blind not to be turned on by him. They’ve spent the last two days wrapped up in each other, and it’s been utterly satisfying. There hasn’t been any more sex _per se_ – Peter says he’s too sore to even think about knotting, and Stiles isn’t much better - but Peter’s been more than attentive to Stiles’s needs, and it definitely does soothe the ache when he’s wet and open. Plus, the look of rapt attention on Peter’s face when he’s buried knuckle-deep in Stiles’s body is something to behold. If Stiles didn’t know better he’d say Peter actually cared, instead of just being driven by biology. But he knows that’s just his hormones talking – he and Peter like each other, and Stiles can tell this arrangement’s going to work well, but he’s not foolish enough to mistake that for actual emotion. (Is fondness an emotion? He doesn’t know at this point.)

He sneaks in another lungful of alpha scent before Peter rolls over to face him with a soft smile, and then there’s a hand cupping his face and Peter’s kissing him. The thought that someone as attractive and powerful as Peter wants him still makes Stiles grin like an idiot. He closes his eyes and enjoys the kiss, the way Peter’s hands are strong and sure on his body, the rasp of stubble against his skin. He’s recovered from their disaster of a claiming night, and he’s keen to try again, but Peter must still be sore, because he pulls back when Stiles attempts to get closer.

“Bathroom,” he rasps out in explanation, before shimmying out of bed and disappearing. Stiles lies in bed a little longer, hopeful that Peter might come back, but then he hears the shower start up. Okay, then. There’ll be no morning ravishment, apparently. Stiles yawns and stretches before stumbling out of bed and towards the kitchen. He makes a pot of coffee, fingers tapping idly against the counter.

He’s enjoyed their time together, but he’s jittery, restless, _bored. _They’ve been housebound for nearly a week and Stiles wants, no - _needs_, to get out, get some fresh air, see some different faces. He wonders if Peter will think it rude of him if Stiles asks to go out. He doesn’t think so, but he remembers how possessive Peter had been at their claiming.

He’s still contemplating the idea when Peter sweeps into the kitchen, dressed in dark jeans and an indecent v neck. “I hope you don’t mind, but I thought we’d go out today,” he says breezily. “I don’t think I’ve ever spent this long at home in my life and frankly it’s stifling.”

Stiles hands over a cup to Peter and grins. “Thank god. I mean, not that I haven’t enjoyed spending time with you, but I’m so fucking bored.”

“I doubt either of us is the stay-at-home type.” Peter takes a drink, then peers into the mug, a pleased smile creeping onto his face. “Thank you, sweetheart. This is exactly how I take my coffee.”

Stiles shrugs, pretends he’s not secretly melting under the praise. “You have five cups a day. It wasn’t hard to remember how you have it.”

Peter turns those pretty blue eyes of his on Stiles. “So, where shall we go today?”

Stiles already knows what he wants to do. “I was going to ask if I could go to the college, see about getting my books sorted? I know it’s months away, but I don’t want them to be sold out.”

Peter raises an eyebrow. “That’s your idea of having a good time?”

“Going to get ready for something I never thought I’d get to do, knowing nobody can stop me? It kinda is, yeah.”

Peter snorts, amused. “You really just love being a living, breathing, _fuck you_ to the system, don’t you?”

Stiles flutters his lashes, affecting a scandalised tone. “Why Alpha, what are you implying? That I’m not your average obedient, pliant little meg bitch?”

Peter winces. “Don’t call yourself that,” he snaps, all traces of humor gone.

Stiles is startled by the vehemence in his tone. “What, obedient?”

“Meg bitch.” Peter’s expression is stony. “I never want to hear that term again, you hear me?”

Stiles nods silently. He’s obviously hit a raw nerve, and he’s not quite brave enough to ask what exactly happened in Peter’s life to make him react like that. Instead he says, “Come with me? We could get breakfast on the way, make nice in public - the newly mated mayor and his devoted partner.”

Peter looks almost grateful at Stiles's suggestion. “That sounds ideal. Food, then books. And perhaps a tour of the college grounds.”

“They don’t do tours, not at this time of year.”

“They will for me,” Peter says, with the casual arrogance Stiles has come to expect. “I’ll make a call, set it up.” The display of power turns Stiles on more than he was expecting and he wonders, briefly, if he can tempt Peter back to bed – maybe he’s healed enough? But Peter just drains his cup and nods at Stiles. “Were you planning on going out in your boxers, or are you going to get dressed?”

* * *

Breakfast’s nice, even if Peter’s still quieter than Stiles is used to. He’d still love to poke that bear, find out exactly why Peter got so salty, but he resists. Peter’s about to outlay what Stiles considers a small fortune on textbooks, and even though he doesn’t seem the type to be petty and change his mind just because he’s annoyed, Stiles isn’t going to chance it, not when his goal’s in sight.

Peter’s mood picks up when they arrive at the college and are taken on a tour by one of the board members. The woman tells Stiles he’s lucky he has such a forward-thinking alpha, and Stiles wants to be annoyed, except she speaks to him directly, and he can tell she’s genuinely pleased for him. “What have you chosen to study?” she asks.

Stiles clears his throat. “Associate degree in English.”

The woman hums approvingly. “A good solid qualification. Any idea what you’ll do with it?”

Stiles shakes his head. “Not a clue. I have to get the thing first.”

She gives a reassuring smile. “I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

Peter takes his hand and gives it a squeeze, and they continue the tour.

Having seen the campus and been given the bundle of brochures setting out the protections in place for omega students, Stiles is strangely reassured. Although they’re written in a style just shy of condescending, the information in the pamphlets is actually helpful, and some of the stupid things he’d been worrying over are addressed, so he takes it as a win. He’s impressed with the student services center, a space for studying and taking time out, and it hits him that this is actually happening, that he’s going to be a student. He’s not sure the day could get any better.

That’s before they stop at the campus bookstore. Stiles doesn’t have a full list yet, but the man behind the counter’s able to give them a basic rundown on certain texts that Stiles is guaranteed to need, and several books that he recommends just because they’re must-reads, and when they leave half an hour later Stiles is carrying two bags and wearing a smile that stretches from ear to ear. Peter offers to carry the bags, but Stiles shakes his head. “Nope. Holding them makes it real, you know?” 

Peter’s mood has improved steadily throughout the day, and when they get home, he’s smiling a secretive smile. Stiles walks in the door with his books and asks, “Where should I put these?”

Peter’s smile widens. “In your study, of course.” When Stiles stares blankly, he leads the way up the hallway to where his own office is and opens the door to the room next to it. Last time Stiles saw it was before he moved in and it was a bedroom then, but sometime in between then and now, Peter’s been busy.

The room houses a desk, some bookshelves, several pinup boards, a selection of stationery, a desk lamp, and a fining cabinet. Stiles stares for a moment while he registers what he’s seeing. “I assumed you’d need a place to study. Lord knows, the last thing I want is pages of homework spread over the dining table, and you look like you’d be the sort.” Peter rubs a hand over the back of his neck awkwardly, and if Stiles didn’t know better, he’d say he was nervous. ”You like it?”

Stiles places his bags of books carefully on the ground, running a fingertip over the rich leather of his office chair. “It’s perfect. This – thank you,” he says softly, at a loss for words. It seems natural to step into Peter’s personal space, pull him close, and kiss him. Stiles wraps his arms around Peter’s back as he explores that soft mouth, tongue darting out and licking into the space there. It’s heady and arousing, and Stiles would love it to go further, but just when it’s getting heated and he’s hardening in his jeans, Peter tenses in his arms and pulls back slightly.

“I – not now, sweet boy. We have books to unpack.” Peter prises Stiles’s arms away, steps out of his grip, and starts shelving their purchases.

Stiles almost pouts, but Peter doesn’t seem to notice, and Stiles doesn’t want to draw attention to the fact that he’s acting like a typical needy mate – the hormone levels are definitely settling, because he’s not desperate for contact, not like before, this was just because he _wanted_ it. Peter apparently doesn’t feel the same though, so Stiles bites back a sigh and helps unpack the bags.

Maybe later.

* * *

Later doesn’t happen. When Stiles goes to bed, Peter’s still up reading, and Stiles falls asleep waiting for him.

* * *

Stiles wants to call his dad on Saturday, so he asks if it’s okay. Peter gives him an incredulous look. “You really think you need to ask?”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t sure with the bonding stuff, how possessive you’d be.”

Peter lets out a sigh. “It’s your family, Stiles. Go see him.”

That does sound like a good idea. “I might. You wanna come?”

Again, Peter sighs. “Why would I give you full permission to be out alone and then come everywhere with you? No, I have things to do. I need to prepare for next week’s budget meetings – Deuc’s emailed me the notes, so I’ll be neck deep in those all morning.” He takes his coffee mug and heads to his office, leaving Stiles standing there feeling, if not rejected exactly, then definitely dismissed. Stiles gives himself a mental shake. Really, what was he expecting? They’ve done what they needed to sate their biological urges, and now they’ll settle into everyday life, that’s all.

He calls his dad, arranges to meet him for lunch. Before he leaves, he sticks his head in the door of the office to tell Peter he’s leaving, and Peter holds up a hand. “Just a second, sweetheart.” For a moment Stiles thinks Peter’s changed his mind, is coming with him, but Peter just fishes in a drawer and hands over a credit card with Stiles’s name on it. “For you.”

Stiles’s mouth drops open. He’s never had a credit card – it’s not something available to omegas. Peter must mistake his confusion for refusal, because he says, “Don’t worry, the bill still comes to me. But this is more convenient than having you ask me for money every time you go out.”

“And I can use it for – “ Stiles can’t drag his eyes away from the card, not least of all because it bears his new name embossed in gold, _Mieczyslaw Hale. _

Peter looks confused. “Whatever you need, sweetheart. That’s the point.”

“So, if my jeep needs new tires?”

“I’d hope you’d be a responsible adult and get them replaced.”

“And lunch with my dad?”

_“Whatever you need,” _Peter repeats it slowly.

Stiles continues to stare at the square of plastic. “I could buy anything.” It’s unthinkable.

Peter arches a brow. “You could, but I’m assuming you have a modicum of sense. Just don’t go over the limit.”

“What’s -um, what’s the limit?” Stiles hopes he doesn’t sound greedy, but he'd like to know - he doesn’t want to go over by accident.

“Ten thousand.” Peter says it like it’s nothing, and all the breath leaves Stiles’s body.

Omegas don’t get to have free rein, is the thing. It's common knowledge that they’re not to be trusted with financial decisions. Alphas pay the bills, omegas get an allowance. They definitely don’t get to have access to _ten thousand dollars_. Stiles flops into a nearby chair, and has to take a couple of deep, shaky breaths to calm himself.

It’s one thing for Peter to talk about Stiles having freedom, but this? This is the proof. Stiles could get his jeep repaired. Hell, he could buy a new car. He could book a flight to Paris. He shakes his head, tries to gather his thoughts. Peter’s looking at him with concern. “Stiles?”

Stiles can’t speak, just shaking his head as he tries to get his words together. Finally, he gets out, “Alphas don’t give their omegas credit cards, Peter.”

“This one does,” Peter says decisively. “I’ve always hated seeing partners asking permission to spend a dollar. It’s like begging.” A shadow crosses his face at that, and Stiles wonders once again what happened to shape Peter’s views. Peter steps around his desk and lays a hand on Stiles’ shoulder. “I just want to make things easy, so we don’t have to be joined at the hip.”

Of course.

Peter doesn’t have time to take Stiles to the bank every few days, or transfer money into his account. That’s what this is about- convenience. Stiles doesn’t even care.

“So, I guess I’m taking my dad to lunch somewhere nice,” he says slowly, his mouth curving up in a smile.

Peter shrugs. “Whatever you think, sweetheart.”

* * *

In the end, Stiles takes his dad out for burgers. It’s what they feel like, and they spend an hour just catching up over their meal, and John doesn’t ask too much except for a vague, “It’s going well, then?” before moving on to tales of what some dumbass did at the station last week. Stiles counts it as a lucky escape, because he'd been expecting something of a grilling - his dad is a cop after all. When it’s time to pay Stiles pulls out his card, and he suspects the thrill he gets using it for the first time is just the same as if they’d gone somewhere fancy.

His dad’s eyes light on the card and he raises his eyebrows. “I guess Peter’s keeping his word about letting you have your independence?”

Stiles gets a warm feeling just thinking about it. “Yeah, he really is. I’m already enrolled for next semester, and we got my books, and he converted a bedroom into a study. A study, Dad. Just for me. Plus,” he waves the card with a grin.

And…everything else is okay?” His father gives him a significant look. ”Because I know the claiming –“

“Nope. Not going there. It’s fine, everything’s fine, please never ask again,” Stiles babbles, cheeks burning as he shoves the card in his pocket and practically drags his dad to the exit.

John chuckles, but he doesn’t ask again. Stiles gives him a hug in the car park, and they arrange to catch up the following week. And then his dad’s gone and Stiles is there, out in the big wide world, an unsupervised, mated omega with a <strike>ten thousand</strike> nine thousand, nine hundred and seventy two dollar credit card.

He sits in his jeep for a minute, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel and thinking. He wants to do _something_, but he also doesn’t want to throw his privilege back in Peter’s face by being wasteful. It comes to him then, something that’s useful but also enjoyable, and he grins. He throws the jeep into gear, and heads for his destination.

He’s going to Whole Foods.

* * *

Stiles normally comes here with his dad, and they have a list and a budget and half the trip’s spent with them haggling over what red meat his dad’s allowed.

This time though? Nobody’s there with him and it’s an unaccustomed thrill, honestly. He doesn’t know what Peter likes _exactly,_ but he can guess, having seen the contents of the fridge. So he loads up on paper-thin prosciutto, soft cheeses, pickled artichoke hearts, and an array of other items that he’d normally only buy for special occasions. Bonding’s a special occasion, he tells himself firmly. Besides, their cupboards are distinctly bare right now, so really, he’s only doing what a good omega should.

That doesn’t diminish his enjoyment as he strolls through the store, taking his time as he loads up his trolley. It feels good doing something nice for Peter, even if it’s just a stupid household chore. Peter’s already been far nicer to him than he ever expected from any Alpha, and he’s determined to contribute what he can to help things run smoothly.

He gets to the checkout and blanches a little over the total, but he forces himself to look the cashier in the eye as he hands his card over, even though his heart’s racing and he half expects her to demand proof that it’s his. She doesn’t give it a second look though, just runs his purchases through and wishes him a good day. Stiles is probably far too effusive in his thanks, but he doesn’t care.

He loads the contents of his cart into the jeep, wondering how he can thank Peter, explain what this means for him. Maybe he could get him a gift? Stiles has Peter’s card, but he also has his own money from his last paycheck. There’s a fifty tucked away in the back of his wallet that he always carries, emergency money. He could probably spend it now, get his mate something nice.

He’s still mulling the idea over when he spots a small liquor store, and he remembers that now he’s mated, he’s able to go in there - mate status overrides state drinking age laws, especially now he holds what Stiles likes to think of as his ‘_access all areas’_ pass– the laminated card that states in bold letters _NO RESTRICTION ON ACTIVITIES_, and means he can pretty much do as he likes. If he’s honest, Stiles treasures that card more than his diamond claiming ring.

Peter likes scotch, top shelf scotch to be exact, and the bottle he currently has is nearly empty. Stiles walks into the store, smiling at his own brilliance. It doesn’t take him long to find what he’s looking for, and it's on sale, falling within his budget, just. He grabs the bottle and takes it to the counter, and before the man can even ask, slaps down his permissions pass and the fifty dollar note. The man examines the pass, shrugs, and sells him the scotch. Stiles has never felt this powerful in his life. (Well, apart from when they were in bed and he turned Peter into a babbling mess. That was something else entirely.)

He walks with a spring in his step back to the jeep and heads home, whistling.

* * *

When he pulls into the driveway the door opens and Peter sticks his head out, almost like he was waiting there. “How was lunch?”

“It was good. I went to the store while I was out, figured we could use some groceries.” Stile is gratified to see the Peter’s pleased expression. 

Peter steps out the door. “Need a hand unloading?” Stiles nods his thanks, and the pair of them get everything inside. Stiles is slightly nervous when he reveals how much he spent, but Peter doesn’t even blink. “You don’t need to tell me every time you spend money, sweetheart.”

“I know that,” Stiles says quickly. Peter’s raised brow says he knows that’s a lie, but he doesn’t say anything.

Once the groceries are put away Stiles slips outside and gets the bottle of scotch from where he’s left it on the front seat in its gift bag. He takes it inside and holds it out to Peter. “I got you something.”

Peter tilts his head. “You bought me a gift?”

“I didn’t use the card,” Stiles clarifies, because he wants Peter to know that this is from _him._ “I bought it myself. It’s a claiming gift, I guess.”

Peter takes the bag and peers inside. He lift out the bottle and his face breaks into a wide smile that makes the corners of his eyes crease in a way that’s unfairly sexy and fills Stiles with a sudden, unexpected desire to have Peter around him, inside of him. “Thank you.” He leans in and presses a soft kiss to Stiles’s cheek. “It was completely unnecessary, mind you.”

Stiles shrugs. “You’ve done so much for me. I wanted to do something nice in return.”

“You already did ‘something nice’ by mating with me,” Peter reminds him. “But that doesn’t mean I won’t enjoy this thoroughly.” He uncaps the bottle and takes a long sniff, closing his eyes as he does so. “This is my favorite, you realize that?”

The unabashed pleasure on Peter’s face makes Stiles bold, and he decides, _fuck it. _He’s allowed to ask for this. He steps in closer. “I thought I was your favorite?” Peter’s eyes snap open and his nostrils twitch, and Stiles takes the chance to tilt his head to the side so his scent gland is right there under Peter’s nose. He weaves his fingertips through Peter’s hair and holds him close, and he’s rewarded with Peter inhaling deeply. Stiles slips a hand between their bodies and cups Peter’s groin, feels his cock twitch. “Let me do something else nice for you?” he asks quietly.

“Stiles, you don't have to –“ Peter’s rapidly filling cock gives lie to his words, and Stiles is overcome with a sudden desire to see, to touch.

“No, I know I don't, but I want to.” Stiles runs his hand across the growing bulge. “Let me.“

Peter lets out a low groan, hips rocking forward, and Stiles takes it as a yes. He pops the button on Peter’s jeans, and has the zip halfway down before there’s a hand on top of his, stilling him. Peter’s gazing at him intently. “You’re sure?” Stiles nods, licks his lips. Peter stares for another second, pure want blazing in his eyes, “Not here,” he says finally, voice low and urgent. “Bed.”

And then Stiles feels strong arms under his thighs as Peter hoists him up and carries him through to the bedroom, rumbling deep in his chest. Stiles holds on tight, mouthing against Peter’s throat as they make their way down the hallway, because Peter’s throat is a thing of beauty and frankly it deserves to be worshipped.

Peter deposits him so he’s sitting on the edge of the bed and sits next to him, pulling him in for a hungry kiss. Stiles tilts them so they fall sideways onto the bed, and then while Peter’s still kissing him and sliding his hands up Stiles’s shirt, Stiles rolls them so he’s the one straddling Peter. Lust-blown pupils stare up at him, and Stiles is compelled to honesty. “I have no idea what I’m doing, but I want to touch you. Show me what you like?”

At that, Peter sits up and wraps his arms around Stiles’s back, growling, “How am I supposed to resist that?” Stiles wonders briefly why Peter would want to resist, but the thought’s lost as desperate hands tug at his clothing in a scramble to get him undressed, and before he knows it they’re naked and Peter’s hovering over him, propped on his elbows, his cock nudging Stiles’s entrance, and just for a second, Stiles thinks, hopes, that maybe Peter’s going to fuck him again. But then Peter rolls onto his back with a huff.

Stiles props himself up, frowning. He wants to ask if he did something wrong, but then Peter’s pulling him close, lining their bodies up and pressing their cocks together, and Stiles sees where this is going. He slides a hand down between them, starts to run his fingers over Peter’s balls, feeling how full, how heavy they are. It’s a reminder that Peter hasn’t gotten off since they knotted.

The skin’s hot and smooth under Stiles’s fingertips and he starts to leak slick as his body responds to a naked alpha, _his _alpha, to warm hands on his body. He takes his fingers away long enough to swipe them between his legs and get them wet before wrapping them around Peter’s cock and starting to give long, slow tugs. Peter makes an absolutely filthy sound and rasps out, “Yes, that, keep doing that.” 

Stiles grins into the crook of Peter’s neck, and keeps doing that. He works Peter’s cock, slow and steady, and once he figures out what he’s doing, he shifts his hand so he has both of them in his grasp, and _oh_, he wasn’t prepared for how good the slip and slide of another dick against his own would feel, the way the delicate skin rubs just right, and he makes an unholy squeaking noise.

Peter moans in agreement, and puts his hand on top of Stiles’s, guiding him into a slightly faster rhythm. Need sizzles through Stiles’s veins, hot and desperate, his whole body taut as a bowstring, and he knows this won’t take long. Peter’s cock throbs under his hand, precome leaking and adding to the slickness, and the room echoes with their pants and groans and the slick sound of wet flesh. Stiles grips a little tighter, runs a thumb over Peter’s leaking slit, and Peter ruts a little harder into their hands, chasing his peak. Peter’s breath catches and his whole body stiffens, and he lets out something like a roar as he comes all over their hands in great spurts the likes of which Stiles has never seen. The wetness and warmth overwhelms him, and his own orgasm hits him like a freight train, making him gasp in surprise and delight.

Peter’s still coming, and he’s reaching down and cupping the base of his cock. Stiles glances down, and it’s then that he sees Peter’s knot swelling. On impulse, he ignores his post-orgasmic desire to flop down in a heap in favor of batting Peter’s hands aside and wrapping his own, spunk-slick palms around the knot and massaging gently. Peter tenses, makes a sound like he’s been punched, and rolls onto his back, spreading his legs wider. Stiles doesn’t have to be a mind reader to know what his alpha wants. He continues to knead and work the flesh, squeezing rhythmically, dragging his fingertips over the mass of solid flesh. Peter hisses between his teeth and rocks up into his touch, a steady stream of come spurting lazily out of his still hard cock.

Stiles watches, fascinated, his hands still moving and massaging, and Peter’s babbling now, _“Oh fuck, oh fuck, that wasn’t supposed to – don’t stop, right there, yes,”_ and it’s possibly the best thing Stiles has ever heard, so he just keeps doing what he’s doing in an effort to make Peter fall apart further, and soaks up the sight and sound of his alpha coming undone.

It goes on for long minutes, but eventually the knot stops pulsing under his fingers, and Peter slaps a hand against his wrist and grips him tight, whimpering, “No more.”

Stiles stills his hand, and Peter lets out a deep sigh. Finally, he croaks out, ”My perfect boy.” Normally Stiles would object to the boy part, but he’s discovered he doesn’t mind when it’s Peter, and he especially doesn’t mind when it’s preceded by ‘_sweet’_ or ‘_good’_ or ‘_perfect.’ _ Something in him just kind of flops over like a puppy chasing a belly rub whenever Peter calls him those pet names, and Stiles can’t find it in himself to ask him to stop.

So he revels in the warmth of his alpha’s approval, and when Peter shows no signs of getting out of bed it’s Stiles who gets a warm cloth and cleans them up while Peter just lays there and sighs like he’s in some sort of daze. Peter reaches up and drags Stiles into a sloppy, uncoordinated kiss and Stiles goes with it, resting his head against Peter’s chest when he finally lets go. “M’ a puddle,” Peter slurs at Stiles. “You made me a puddle.”

Stiles just laughs, delighted.

* * *

Peter’s whole body tingles and thrums with the satisfaction of knotting, and he snuggles down into the comforter, rolling in bliss. Stiles is laughing, (at him? With him? Does it matter?) and Peter can feel the lopsided grin on his face. Peter honestly meant to keep his knot to himself, and he’ll probably feel bad about it later, but right now? He can’t bring himself to care. He said he’d let Stiles set the pace, and Stiles _had_ asked. True, Stiles probably didn’t expect Peter’s knot, but he didn’t seem to mind it, either.

Peter genuinely intended to control himself, had no intention of letting himself act like one of those knot-driven morons he so despises. Yet for all his noble intentions, they didn’t do a thing to stop it happening, did they?

No, they did not.

Oh, god. Maybe he _is _one of those knot-driven morons.

Tendrils of guilt start to tease at the edge of his euphoria, but just then a soft hand splays across his chest and Stiles is propped above him peering down at him, a smug grin plastered across his features. _Like the cat that got the cream_, Peter thinks. “You back with me, alpha?”

Peter blinks, trying to form words, brain still scrambled. “M’good.”

“kay.” Stiles leans into peck Peter’s cheek then settles against his chest, and Peter’s arm wraps around him instinctively, keeping his omega close.

This is _not_ how he planned for his afternoon to go.

He was meant to make the most of the newfound ability to stop obsessing over his mate, knuckle down, and prepare for Monday’s meetings. And he did, for a good three hours.

But then time dragged on and Stiles wasn’t back, and Peter…didn’t worry, exactly, but he was aware that Stiles had been gone for an awfully long time for a lunch date. He’d assured himself that Stiles was just catching up with his dad, but he couldn’t deny the flutter of relief when he heard the jeep in the driveway.

It turned out Stiles had been doing groceries, and apart from being relieved, Peter was touched by the sheer practicality of the gesture. And when Stiles presented him with a gift, unasked for and unexpected, of Peter’s favorite scotch, Peter had been touched – it’s the very first gift Stiles has given him, and it pleased him more than he could say. The idea that Stiles had not only thought about him while they were apart but had gone out of his way to make Peter happy? It made him weak and greedy, and when Stiles propositioned him he folded like a cheap suit, all his good intentions cast aside. And now here they are in bed together, having gone much further than Peter could have foreseen, with exactly zero regrets.

It’s not what Peter had planned for today _at all_.

And as much as he enjoyed it immensely, he’s really going to have to work on his control. He’d come _so close_ to just sliding into Stiles’s delicious cunt, fucking him without asking, taking advantage. It was only at the last second, constrained by the memories of how painful their last time was, that he’d managed to pull back.

Still. He didn’t knot Stiles without permission, and that’s something at least. Maybe, he muses, they can do this instead, Stiles can use his hands, (_and maybe his mouth_, a treacherous voice whispers),at least until Peter figures out what’s wrong with him. Peter never expected to react so strongly to warm hands rubbing and kneading his flesh, and it was a revelation. If the contented smile on Stiles’s face is anything to go by, they both enjoyed it.

Yes, he decides. If he can’t prevent his knot from forming, he’ll let Stiles play with it, milk it, and that will be enough. It’s not a perfect solution by any means, but until he figures out why his body’s betraying him, it will do.

It’ll have to.


	11. Chapter 11

Stiles sends Peter off to work on Monday with a kiss, but there’s no packed lunch, and Peter doesn’t pat his head and tell him to have a good day at home, because Peter is too busy running late after sleeping in. Stiles preens slightly when Peter admits he’s sleeping better then he has in years, thanks to Stiles being in bed with him. It’s nice to know he’s having a positive impact on Peter’s life, and not just his voter figures.

This time when Peter leaves, Stiles doesn’t pine and cry in the bath. Instead he revels in the empty house, puts on some music, and dances his way around the place in his underwear as he cleans – the pair of them have been too wrapped up in each other to give the house much attention, and the unwashed dishes are making him twitch. He ignores the inner voice chanting ‘_Look at Little Suzy Homemaker’ _– he lives here, he helped make the mess, it’s only fair he helps clean it, okay? Wanting a clean kitchen and bedsheets that don’t crackle when you roll over has nothing to do with being an omega, nothing at all. That’s what he tells himself as he shoves the sheets into the washing machine, anyway.

He thinks about the week he’s just had. Mated life is nothing like he expected. Somehow Stiles always thought it would make his world smaller, and he’d accepted that – it is what it is, for an omega - but with Peter it’s the complete opposite. He has the promise of a degree, financial freedom, and is mated to a man who genuinely seems happy for Stiles to do pretty much whatever he wants. There’s part of him that’s waiting for the other shoe to drop – he knows what they say about _‘if something seems too good to be true’_ \- but as the days pass, there’s also a slowly growing certainty maybe he actually did hit the alpha jackpot. Of course, it’s only been a week, and he’s been doing his best to keep on Peter’s good side, but still. He’s optimistic.

Since he’s in the zone, he cleans both bathrooms and mops the floors, and he can’t deny the satisfaction at a job well done that courses through him. He remakes the bed with soft-as-clouds thousand count sheets, and spends a minute laying sprawled across the bed, enjoying the soft fabric against his skin. Maybe, he muses, he should pose like this when Peter gets home. See if he can’t tempt him into bed, maybe for more than a hand job. He snorts at the very idea of it – he’s a walking, talking, stereotype right now, isn’t he? Happily mated and waiting for his alpha to come home and claim him.

He sits up in the bed and gives himself a shake. Nope. That’s not who he is. He’s not going to sit home waiting for Peter. He’s going to go out and …

…and what, exactly?

There are probably a hundred and one ways to fill his day, it’s just that none of them appeal right this second. Still, surely once he goes out something will come to him, right?

He grabs his keys.

* * *

He ends up at the mechanic’s.

It’s not intentional, but while he’s driving the jeep starts making ominous knocking and rattling noises that sound almost terminal. When he asked Peter earlier in the week if he could get some repairs done, it earned him an amused huff and an assurance that Peter _really _didn’t mind him spending money. Peter even gave him the name of a garage he deemed trustworthy. Stiles had tucked the card in his wallet and hadn’t given it a second thought, but now he fishes the card out and calls, and as soon as they hear the name Hale, they tell him to bring it right on in. He drives over, shuddering and stalling the whole way.

It’s nothing like the cheap garage Stiles normally goes to. His guy is kinda competent, but it’s a backyard operation. Whereas this place? It has a waiting area with a water cooler, and a smiling receptionist who offers him tea while he waits. The mechanic himself is practically prince charming – even if he does make that hissing sound between his teeth that Stiles has come to dread when he looks under the hood.

“I just need it running,” he offers nervously. “It has more, uh, sentimental value than anything.” He’s fully aware that the jeep’s worth nothing, that he’s throwing good money after bad, but it was his mom’s, and he can’t bring himself to part with it. (His dad once confessed after a few beers that Stiles might very well have been conceived in the back seat, and Stiles couldn’t bring himself to drive it after that until he’d had it detailed. Now that he’s older, he guesses he can see the funny side of – nope, he still can’t. He shudders at the thought.)

The mechanic’s humming under his breath and muttering, and Stiles is afraid to speak in case he interrupts whatever spell the man is casting, but finally he can’t take it. “So, can you fix it?”

“Sure can,” comes floating out from under the hood.

Stiles perks up. “Really? It’s not dead?”

The mechanic doesn’t look up. “Nope. Take a week, though.” He finally emerges. “You gonna call your Mr Hale, or you got some other way to get home?” His eyes linger on Stiles’s claiming ring, and Stiles knows right then that he’ll be calling Peter – tongues will wag if he’s collected by anyone else.

“I’ll call my alpha,” he assures the man. “How much is it gonna cost?”

“Maybe five hundred, maybe seven? Depends. Your alpha alright spending that much on this?” His jeep is such a sad sight that Stiles doesn’t even blame the guy for asking, honestly.

He sends a text.

_Hey, I’m really sorry but the jeep broke down and now I need a ride home. Can you come get?_

He expects some sort of delay in getting a reply -he knows Peter’s knee deep in figures – but the response is almost immediate.

**Are you safe?**

He feels bad now – that should have been the first thing he said. _Yeah, made it to Mulligans Garage._

**Can you wait half an hour? **

Stiles isn’t sure if the texts are terse because Peter’s busy or because he’s pissed at being called at work. He chooses to believe busy.

_Just whenever you can, but I think I’ll get side eyed if someone else collects me. You sure it’s okay?_

**Not a problem, gives me an excuse to wrap this meeting up. See you soon.**

“He’ll be here in half an hour. Is it okay if I just – “ Stiles gestures vaguely, and the man nods towards the waiting area.

Stiles takes the hint and settles into the soft armchairs. He pulls out his phone and plays a mindless game while he waits, and it’s barely fifteen minutes later when Peter’s car pulls into the parking lot. Peter strides in and Stiles is on his feet in an instant. “Sorry to call you from your meeting.”

A wave of unaccountable guilt washes over him for dragging Peter away from work, and only eases when Peter gives him a bright smile. “Honestly sweetheart, you couldn’t have timed it better. I was desperate to escape. If I had to hear the words fiscal restructuring one more time…” If he’s kidding, it doesn’t show. “So what’s wrong with your car?”

“It was making awful noises and cutting out, so I drove it straight here.” He hesitates. Peter _said_ he could spend the money, and Stiles knows he’s harping on, but. “It might be as much as seven hundred. It’s a lot. I’m not sure if it’s worth going ahead.”

Peter gives him an assessing look. “It was your mother’s, right?” Stiles wonders how Peter could possibly know that, right until he says, “I remember seeing her drive it around town.” It’s a stark reminder of the difference in their ages. 

Peter gives Stiles that appraising glance again, then walks over to the mechanic. All Stiles sees is some hand gestures from Peter and some nodding from the grease monkey, and then Peter’s walking back smiling widely. “It’ll be ready in a week and a half.”

Relief floods Stiles’s veins, but then his brain catches up to his ears. “I thought you said a week?”

The mechanic shrugs. “Car repair isn’t an exact science. Week and a half.”

Stiles wants to argue that car repair is, in fact an exact science, but Peter’s leading him out to his car and opening his door for him, and Stiles doesn’t have any more time to protest before they’re driving away.

Stiles breaks the silence. “Sorry for calling you away. I know you’re busy this week.”

Peter’s eyes don’t leave the road. “Sweetheart, I’m busy every week. It’s fine. Besides, do you know what it will do for my voter approval rating when it gets out that I left in the middle of a budget meeting to rescue my poor, stranded mate, wouldn’t trust his wellbeing to anyone else?” He turns then, and his expression can only be described as smug. “It will send them _through the roof._”

Huh. Stiles hadn’t thought of that, but it’s true that politicians who are seen to be devoted partners have a significantly higher re-election rate. It’s why Peter got mated in the first place. He feels slightly better, and chances a joke. “Well in that case, let me know when the best time to have a crisis is and I’ll be sure to call you.”

“Thursdays,” Peter says without hesitation. “Thursdays is zoning approval and I hate those meetings with a passion.” Stiles glances across and sees the corner of Peter’s mouth has quirked up, so he figures he really hasn’t ruined his day after all. “Where were you heading, anyway?” Peter asks. “I can drop you there if you like.”

“I – um, nowhere, really.” Stiles squirms under the weight of Peter’s gaze. “I just wanted to get out of the house. I do that sometimes, just drive around, maybe go for a walk in the preserve just to clear my head.” Stiles is aware he’s babbling, but he can’t seem to stop. “I don’t do well with being housebound, never have. Ask my dad. The number of times he caught me and Scott out wandering the streets after dark…” Stiles trails off, suddenly aware he’s painting himself in a less that flattering light, and unsure why it even matters.

Peter hums, thoughtful, and Stiles half expects a lecture on wasting time and fuel and making his alpha worry, but instead Peter says, “A week and a half with no jeep is going to make you stir crazy, isn’t it?”

Shit. Stiles hadn’t even thought of that. Still, he’ll cope. He’ll have to. Peter’s too busy to be at his beck and call, whatever he says about zoning approval meetings. “No, it’ll be fine. I’ll start my reading, get on the internet, watch some Netflix. I’ll keep myself busy.”

“I’m sure. And what will you do on day two?”

Stiles opens his mouth to speak, but he finds that for once, he doesn’t have a reply. Peter chuckles and its almost fond. “You do remember I have two cars, right? You can use one, just so you don’t climb the walls.”

Stiles’s mouth drops open further, and it takes him a second, but then he thinks to ask, “So, can I take the Cobra?”

Peter snorts as he pulls up to their driveway. “Absolutely not. I’ve seen your car interior, and it's criminal, the mess in there. I’ll take the Cobra for the week. You’ll take the Toyota.”

Stiles didn’t really expect different.

Peter doesn’t linger when he drops him off, stays just long enough to give Stiles a quick kiss and tell him he’ll be late, and then he’s gone, back to his budget meetings.

* * *

Stiles doesn’t go out again. He spends the day binge-watching a series on Netflix instead, and then makes dinner. He’s not a great cook, but he knows Peter will appreciate the effort. And maybe after dinner Stiles can show his gratitude for the rescue today in…other ways.

Except Peter’s late. Stiles gets a text around eight saying simply **Snowed under. Won’t make dinner. Don’t wait up.**

He sighs, and pokes at the meatloaf he’d made. It wasn’t great to start with, and it’s been slowly drying out while he waited. Maybe Peter’s lucky he’s not here for it. Stiles serves himself and eats without really tasting, and wonders if this means his other plans for the evening are a write off as well. 

Probably.

* * *

He wakes in the dark to the shuff of fabric and the clink of a belt, and rolls over to check the time. It’s nearly midnight, and he extends an arm towards the shadowy figure of his mate and makes a vaguely welcoming noise. The bed dips as Peter crawls in.

“Late,” Stiles grumbles.

“Mmm. Got stuck clearing out my emails.” Peter places one soft kiss at the base of Stiles’s neck as he spoons up behind him. “Sorry, sweetheart.”

Stiles snuggles back, and Peter’s arm slips around his waist, possessive. It always does, every single night, and Stiles knows they both sleep better for it. As he drifts back to sleep, he thinks he feels fingertips tracing the down the nape of his neck, but he could be dreaming.

* * *

Peter’s up and dressed and ready to leave by the time Stiles rolls out of bed the next morning. “Meetings all morning, and then a community forum this afternoon,” he says as he grabs his keys. “I might be late again.”

And he is.

And the day after that.

And the day after that.

Stiles fills in his time reading and rereading his course requirements, binge-watching trashy tv shows that he knows there’s no way in hell Peter would want to see (Hello, Extreme Couponing anyone?) and driving round in Peter’s Camry. He has to admit that it’s nice to have a car that starts every time, even if it does lack the character of the jeep.

By Friday, he’s feeling distinctly neglected – he’s in that weird limbo between quitting his job and starting college, but at least while Peter was home, he had company. Now Stiles thinks about it, he doesn’t think they even spoke yesterday, apart from several texts.

And Stiles understands, he does. Sometimes it’s just like that. Peter’s been away, there’s a budget to approve and an election to prepare for, and he’s obviously behind the eight ball. But Stiles also notes the dark rings under Peter’s eyes, knows he’s been sneaking by on less that six hours a night, and that can’t be healthy. So on Friday morning, he lays a hand on Peter’s shoulder as he goes to leave. “Try and make it home tonight? I’m getting lonely.” He gives Peter a soulful, vulnerable look that he’s practiced in the mirror. It’s a dirty trick and he knows it, but it always worked on his dad back when Stiles knew he’d worked too many hours, so it should still work now.

Stiles trails a delicate finger down Peter’s arm, and then rests his head on his shoulder, gazing up through his lashes. Peter’s breath catches, and he reaches out and strokes Stiles’s face. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’ll do my best. I can promise we’ll have the weekend together, though.” Peter gives him a peck on the lips, and Stiles smiles, satisfied that tonight at least, Peter will make it home.

* * *

Peter’s still late, but he’s home a lot earlier than every other evening, so Stiles counts it as a win. He presents Peter with the chicken casserole he’s managed to make without fucking it up, and Peter closes his eyes and gives a happy sigh. “My god, real food. I’m sick of takeout.” He takes a bite and hums with pleasure. “This really is the busiest time of year. I promise I have no intention of making this a habit. But with the election coming up –“

“Hey, I get it. Son of an elected official, remember? I know all the extra stuff that goes on behind the scenes.” Stiles tries his own casserole and is pleasantly surprised. “I’m just worried about you. I don’t want you to get run down.”

Peter gives him a soft smile. “You’re very sweet.”

Stiles wants to protest that he’s anything but sweet, but the words die on his lips when Peter continues to look at him with that soft expression, like Stiles has pleased him somehow, and instead he lets himself bask in the praise.

They eat quietly, and it’s nice. Domestic. After, Stiles clears the table and stacks the dishwasher, and it’s not _deliberate,_ the way he bends to slot the plates in, but he can feel Peter’s eyes following his movements, and maybe he bends a little more, arches his back just so. It has the desired effect. “Are you sure you don’t want to be a stay at home omega? I could get you a french maid’s outfit. You’d look very fetching,” Peter teases.

Stiles snorts, pretending he doesn't know where Peter's going with this. “Yeah, no. I don’t have the legs for it.”

Peter stands and steps up behind him, hands coming around Stiles’s waist and pulling him back against him, and his tone is all dark promise as he says, “You have lovely legs sweetheart, trust me,” and mouths at the back of Stiles’s neck.

Stiles presses back into Peter’s grip, rocking subtly. He murmurs, “That so? Maybe you should take a closer look at them.” He places his hands over Peter’s and eases it towards the button of his jeans. If he plays his cards right, Peter might even bend him over the counter and fuck him, fulfilling one of his teenage fantasies. It’s been two weeks since they mated, and Peter hasn’t knotted him since. He’s keen, so sue him.

Peter drops his head onto Stiles’s shoulder and groans. “Lord, you tempt me so, sweet boy.”

Stiles tilts his head to the side, exposing his scent glands, and lowers his voice in an attempt to sound sultry. “I’ve missed you, _Alpha_.” 

Peter leaves a trail of soft kisses up his throat, and murmurs, “And I, you.”

Stiles lets out a soft whine. “Will you take me to bed?”

“Absolutely.”

Stiles grins his triumph, even as Peter gently turns him so they can kiss properly, broad hands splayed over Stiles’s lower back, keeping him in place. Stiles parts his lips and closes his eyes, getting lost in Peter’s alpha scent, and the spend long minutes just kissing and teasing. Eventually though, Peter pulls back, and leads Stiles upstairs by the hand.

Stiles follows eagerly, pleased his impromptu seduction has worked and hoping like hell they don’t get stuck this time.

* * *

Peter strips Stiles out of his clothes slowly, reverently, before running his hands over Stiles’s skin and murmuring “beautiful,” and Stiles gets a thrill of anticipation. Once Peter’s finished stroking him, once he’s stolen a few more sweet kisses, Stiles grips Peter lightly by the shoulders, pushing him back so his legs hit the side of the bed, and Peter sits down with an amused huff. Stiles kneels between his legs and eases Peter’s shoes off one at a time, dropping them to one side. He rolls down Peter’s socks and takes a moment to run his thumbs down the arch of each foot, earning a satisfied moan. Then he undoes Peter’s belt, then the buttons, then unzips the fly.

Peter’s half hard already when Stiles fishes his cock out and Stiles stares, transfixed, as the flesh stiffens and grows under his light touch. He runs a finger up the thick vein on the underside, leaning in to see better. He thinks about how good it feels when Peter gets his mouth on him. He wonders if it’s the same for an alpha.

Feeling bold, he leans in and licks a stripe up the shaft, curious. It tastes like skin, and he opens his mouth and takes just the head in. The noise Peter makes is obscene, and suddenly there’s a hand tightly clasped in his hair, just this side of painful. He risks looking up, and Peter’s mouth is hanging open, his eyes wide. “Stiles,” he says, and he sounds _wrecked_, even though Stiles has barely done anything. He pulls Stiles off his cock with a wet pop. “You don’t have to.”

Stiles looks up, confused. “Am I doing it wrong?”

Peter closes his eyes and draws a deep breath. “I don’t need this. I don’t want to force you,” he grits out, and suddenly, Stiles gets it.

_Good omegas don’t like to put their mouths on alpha cock_.

It’s one of those things that everyone knows. Except, Stiles _doesn’t_ know. He’s never tried. He looks up, taps Peter’s thigh. “Hey,” he says quietly. Peter blinks, and Stiles could swear he’s shaking. “You’re not forcing me, okay?” Peter relaxes the tiniest bit. Good, that’s good. “Never had an alpha cock of my own to play with,” Stiles says, letting his fingers trail over Peter’s thigh. “I just want to explore.” The hand in his hair loosens a little more, and the muscles in Peter’s thighs lose some of their tension. Stiles wraps a palm around Peter’s dick, slowly stroking, and lowers his head once more, giving little kitten licks. “Feels so good when you do it to me,” he whispers. “Wanted to do it back.” He takes the head in his mouth and holds it there, hears the sharp intake of breath. He moves his head slowly, feeling his way, pulling off to ask quietly, “Is this okay?” Peter nods stiffly, and Stiles notes the way the cords of his neck stand out, the way his eyes are screwed shut, teeth clenched. The hand in his hair tugs him forward, and Stiles can take a hint. Peter _wants _this.

Stiles taps on Peter’s thigh and gets him to shift, tugs his trousers down to midthigh for easier access, and then he fits as much of Peter’s shaft as he can in his mouth. He can’t fit much, but he wraps a hand around the rest and strokes it, sucks and slurps and does his best. Peter’s growling low in his throat every time Stiles bobs his head, and Stiles can feel Peter’s cock throbbing and twitching in response to what he’s doing with his mouth and tongue.

It’s – if the stories are right, nothing about this is supposed to turn Stiles on, yet here he is, getting damp between his thighs and aroused beyond belief - possibly at the sheer filthiness of it, maybe because of the rigid flesh pulsing hot on his tongue, or perhaps it’s at the sight of Peter as he struggles to keep control.

Peter’s a panting mess, head thrown back, eyes closed and mouth open, hands tangled in Stiles’s hair and gripping tightly. Stiles pulls back when there’s a sudden, bitter spurt against his tongue, but then he rallies, rolling the flavor around in his mouth. It tastes like sex, he decides. He closes his eyes and renews his efforts, eager to please his mate, driven by instinct. He swallows around Peter’s cock, which earns him a loud groan and another spurt of precome.

Then Peter’s pulling him off, dragging Stiles into his lap so he’s straddling him, legs splayed wide. “Don’t want to – not in your mouth, “ Peter pants, and Stiles nods. He gets it, and he’s grateful – he’s not sure he could cope with a mouthful of come, not on his first try. Peter has his hands wrapped firmly around Stiles’s hips, holding him there, and he starts thrusting, his cock slick against Stiles’s wet folds.

Back and forth, back and forth, Peter works his hips and ruts against the slickness, the tip of his cock teasing at Stiles’ entrance. “Please,” Stiles moans, the delicious friction bringing him closer with every stroke. “Peter, I need –“ he’s cut off when Peter lifts him and throws him onto his back, and Stiles lets his legs fall wide, waits for the hot press of a body, but instead it’s Peter’s mouth on his cock and two thick fingers moving inside him, stroking that sensitive place, and a thumb teasing over his clit, and it’s too much, he can’t – not both –

Peter moves his hand just right, hits all those sweet spots together, and Stiles comes screaming, cock spurting, cunt throbbing, clit pulsing, all control of his body ripped from him in a searing wave of muscles spasms and pleasure, racing through him like wildfire. He keens high in his throat, limbs turning to jelly even as Peter’s hand gentles him through it and his mouth sucks him dry. Stiles gasps in great breaths, overwhelmed, and then Peter’s moving up the bed and kissing him as he ruts against Stiles’s thigh, short jerky thrusts, three- four - five - he shudders and stills.

Stiles feels the wetness against his skin at the same time Peter slumps forward, breathing heavily. His hot breath tickles the skin of Stiles’s throat, and he squirms, sensitive, whole body still thrumming like a livewire. He’s still shaking with the force of his own orgasms, and he can’t help the squeal that leaves him when Peter starts to move his hand gently, the brush of skin making him quiver and shake with aftershocks. Peter lets out a low chuckle, his fingertips sliding through the wet mess between his legs and teasing him until Stiles comes again, a tiny weak thing, the orgasm forced out of him. He whines and bats at Peter’s hand, and thankfully Peter takes the hint.

Stiles lays pliant and spent, barely able to form a thought, utterly content. Peter’s sprawled across him, a comforting weight, and they stay that way for a few minutes, the room silent apart from their heavy breathing as they both recover. Eventually though, Peter rolls off to the side. Stiles turns to face him and finds Peter gazing at him like he’s something special, something precious. Stiles manages a fucked-out smile, but words are still beyond him. Even thinking’s a struggle. Is sex induced brain damage a thing? He giggles at the idea of it, before the thought flies out of his head.

Peter shuffles them around so he’s spooning Stiles from behind, and Stiles is too tired, too boneless, to object. They can clean up in a minute, he thinks hazily.

He’s asleep thirty seconds later.

* * *

Peter listens to the soft snores coming from his mate, and resolutely ignores his still-throbbing dick.

It was close, but he didn’t give in, didn’t knot, and now his body’s letting him know it disapproves, but he doesn’t care.

He won this round.

He blames the long week apart for the intensity of his need. Taking last week off really did screw over his schedule, and he's spent days scrambling to catch up. He’d had no choice but to knuckle down and put in the hours to get everything in order.

Stiles didn’t scold him, said he understood, but that somehow made it worse for Peter. It’s not that he expected Stiles to be at the door waiting for him when he got home, but some indication he was missed would have been nice. But no, every night when he got home Stiles was sprawled out in their bed fast asleep, only stirring enough to pull Peter close before dropping off again. And while the warm body was nice, Peter found he missed _awake_ Stiles. He wanted someone to laugh with him about the ridiculous public art submissions, to tell about Deucalion’s face when he accidentally poured himself decaf, to argue over whether the new spots on Main Street should be angle parking or not.

So this morning, when Stiles had batted his lashes and asked him to try and make it home, that he was _lonely, _Peter had been quietly thrilled. He’d gone into the office determined to be out of there at five on the dot.

He’d managed to escape at seven.

There had still been more to do, but Deuc had spotted him checking his watch and Peter had confessed that Stiles wanted him home. Deuc made some teasing remark about how it was time Peter got a personal life, and Peter, tired and cranky, was about to snap at him, when Deuc had chuckled and confessed that he too, was under orders from Jeremy to get home at a reasonable hour for once, and maybe they’d both better leave if they knew what was good for them.

Coming home to Stiles had eased a tension in Peter that he hadn’t even noticed was building, and he could feel himself relaxing as Stiles served him dinner and reassured him that he understood, had watched the election process before. Peter had been struck once again by how lucky he was to run into Stiles at that awful mixer. Watching Stiles clean the kitchen later, Peter couldn’t help but appreciate his mate’s lithe form and pretty features, the way his hips moved when he wiped the countertop, the swell of his ass as he stacked the dishwasher.

Peter had thought he was too tired for anything remotely sexual, but apparently his treacherous body had other ideas, because there he was, talking about french maid outfits and pulling his boy close without any idea how it happened. And Stiles tempting little minx that he was, had flat out asked to be taken to bed, and it had been such a long week, and the way those eyelashes flutter against his cheeks should be illegal. How was Peter meant to say no?

Peter had planned on some gentle foreplay, perhaps getting his mouth on Stiles (it does make him beg so prettily), and finishing them off by hand. The last thing he expected was for Stiles to drop to his knees and suck his cock. He’d been utterly shocked, and completely aroused, and it took all his control not to press forward and fuck Stiles's throat there and then. But everyone knows oral is something omegas don’t like, that they only do it to please their partners, and he’s not that man, so he’d given Stiles a choice.

Then Stiles had uttered, “Never had an alpha cock of my own to play with.” And the possessive pride that awoke in Peter was like nothing he’d ever felt, because Stiles was claiming him _as his own. _Somehow it meant more than all the mating documents they’d signed. And when Stiles had whispered that he just wanted to make Peter feel good, it had set alight a desire in him to claim, to keep.

For the record, Stiles’s mouth is incredible, and Peter had come dangerously close to coming at the first flick of that delicate pink tongue. Despite his inexperience, Stiles had pulled Peter close to the brink faster than he would have imagined possible, and he’d ended up hauling Stiles up into his lap, fully intending to fuck him just like that. He’d been so ready to rut up into him, lock them together, tantalisingly close, and Stiles was begging him for more, but at the very last second he’d wrested control back and flipped them, knowing Stiles wasn’t nearly prepared enough for Peter’s cock and unwilling to put Stiles through any more pain just for his own selfish wants.

And as soon as he pulled back, saw the way Stiles spread his legs wide for him, he knew Stiles would agree to anything right now, and it was hardly fair to coerce the boy by teasing him. So instead Peter had gotten to work with his hands and his tongue, and Stiles was so responsive under him, so breathtaking in his desperation, that it was easy to slip his fingers inside and stimulate him that way while licking and suckling that baby cock, and it had occurred to Peter that he could make Stiles come both ways at once, and then maybe Stiles wouldn’t even _notice_ that Peter hadn’t actually fucked him.

He hadn’t expected Stiles to fall apart the way he did, screaming and shaking with a full-body orgasm, and his hindbrain had demanded he pin him down and fuck him, but Peter’s not a slave to his knot, so he’d rubbed off in the crease of Stiles’s hip instead, then made Stiles come again just to see the glorious expressions he made, and it had been almost as good as the real thing.

And he was right. Stiles didn’t even notice he hadn’t been fucked.

If only _Peter_ wasn’t quite so aware of that fact. His cock twitches and his balls throb, silently demanding more, and Peter resolutely ignores it. He’s not going to be controlled by his body – he’s better than that.

Didn’t he just prove it?


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It feels like a million years since I updated, but it's actually been ...eight days.  
Still. Have a big giant chapter as a quasi-apology for making you wait. Or a thank you for waiting so patiently . Whatever works.  
This beast comes in at over 11K, so I hope you enjoy it!

Stiles wakes up overwarm and uncomfortable. Peter’s wrapped around him like an octopus - his face mashed against the crook of Stiles’s neck, a leg thrown over the lower half of his body, and an arm wrapped around him like a steel band, effectively trapping him. It’s pitch dark, nowhere near morning, and Peter’s soft, even breathing tells Stiles that he’s fast asleep. Stiles tries to extract himself, but Peter just grumbles and grips him tighter, so Stiles admits defeat for now and lets himself be snuggled.

He lays awake in the dark and tries to make sense of the sex they just had. Or rather, didn’t have.

What they did was nothing short of mindblowing, sure, and he’s aware that penetration isn’t the be-all and end-all. He just thought it might be involved somewhere along the line. Peter hasn’t fucked him, much less knotted him, since their wedding night. And yeah, he’ll admit he was glad of it that first week when everything still ached, and he figured Peter probably felt the same what with the way he was all bruised to hell, but Stiles wants to try again, even though he’s still worried the same thing might happen. He just needs to know one way or the other – it’s nagging at the back of his mind. Was it a one-off, or will it always be like that? What if they’re truly incompatible, and Peter really is just too big for him to take?

He’s been tempted to google, but past experience has told him that any search about any kind of omega health/body issue will come up with pages and pages of “it’s nature’s way of keeping omegas humble, lest they get ideas” or “a good omega takes what they’re given” or “It’s an omega’s lot to suffer,” or other such traditionalist bullshit. There won’t be any actual advice, Stiles will get mad enough to spit nails, and he’ll end up more confused than he is now. He just wants to know if they can have good sex. At least if they try again and fail, he’ll be able to suggest they go see someone, a doctor maybe. But without trying, he’s in limbo.

From everything he’s ever heard, he’d expected that Peter would have at least tried to knot him again, and Stiles wouldn’t have turned him down. But Peter’s made no attempt, although Stiles suspects he came close tonight.

Maybe the problem is him.

It must have been awful for Peter to get stuck the way he did. Maybe if Stiles had taken the time before the mating to explore his body more, stretch himself out round a vibrator once or twice at least, it wouldn’t have happened. But no, he’d been too chicken, and he was woefully underprepared. Peter must be so disappointed. No wonder he’s not interested in trying again.

Except, Stiles thinks drowsily, that’s not right either. Peter _does_ want him, Stiles can tell. The way Peter looks at him, does things to please him, takes care of him? That’s not duty – that’s genuine affection. And the way he can’t keep his hands to himself? It all points to Peter desiring Stiles as much as Stiles desires him. But he’s holding back for some reason. Stiles wonders if it’s connected to Peter’s determination not to act like a typical alpha, not to treat Stiles like a possession.

Stiles turns it over and over in his mind, poking and prodding at the mystery from all angles. Peter’s been very clear that he has no time for the normal alpha bullshit, and some of the things he’s said have made Stiles wonder what, exactly Peter’s alpha parent was like. Stiles get the impression he was old-school, almost harsh, but he also gets the feeling Peter doesn’t want to talk about it.

Stiles lets out a soft sigh, and tries once more to move. He’s more successful this time, managing to peel himself out of the tangle of limbs, screwing his nose up at the dried come on his belly from where Peter got off on him. It’s 3 am but it’s itchy, so he slips into the bathroom and showers quietly before sneaking back into bed. While he was away Peter rolled onto his back and has gone from octopus to starfish. Stiles can’t help but smile at the ridiculous sight of Peter with pillow creases in his face and tiny wisps of hair curling against his cheek. Can an alpha be described as cute? Yes, Stiles decides. He can.

Stiles really does like Peter, is the thing. And he’s pretty sure Peter likes him back. He wants this to work between them, and he wants to know why Peter won’t knot him, but he’s just not brave enough to ask. What if Peter confirms his suspicions, tells him he sucks in bed? There’s no coming back from that. He doesn’t _think _that’s the case, but who knows?

Stiles wishes he was comfortable talking about this stuff. He knows it’s ironic – he’s happy to sleep with Peter, but god forbid he discuss it - but shyness aside, he’s pretty sure there’s no good way to say, “Hey, you know that awful sex we had? Wanna do it again and see if it’s worse this time?”

Part of it is that Stiles doesn’t want to expose the depths of his ignorance, reveal exactly how many of those omega health classes he skipped in school. (Most of them. He skipped most of them, okay? After that first one where Finstock told them all in far too much detail how he lost a testicle, Stiles eyed up the anatomy charts on the wall, figured he knew the basics, and snuck off to the library instead.)

He guesses he could technically ask his dad, except no. He could barely look his father in the eye for a week after his first heat. He envies people like Scott, who’s able to talk about sex openly (almost too openly in Stiles’s opinion), but that’s not him.

Still turning it over again in his mind, he gently rolls Peter over and settles against his back, enjoying the warmth and security, the way the closeness of his alpha makes him feel. Peter makes a happy sound and snuggles back, and something in the movement just makes Stiles more determined to figure this out.

Maybe, he thinks, he can play dirty. If last night’s any indication, Peter responds to being teased. That seems like something Stiles can work with. If Stiles flirts a little more blatantly, shows some more skin, surely, he’ll be tempting enough that Peter will put aside his reservations and knot him. If it goes well, great. If not? At least they can maybe figure out what went wrong.

He just has to make Peter want him – how hard could it be? He still has all that underwear, and some of it’s pretty sexy, even if he does say so himself. He drifts back to sleep, thinking of ways he can make himself desirable, and confident he’ll be able to get what he wants.

* * *

Peter wakes early. Stiles is asleep, a smile on his face, and Peter’s oh so tempted to wake him with a kiss, see where it leads, but his knot didn’t stop throbbing for an hour last night, and he doesn’t want to start something he can’t finish, so instead he slips out of bed to shower.

He thinks about jerking off but can’t summon the will to do so. Now he’s had Stiles, nothing else will do apparently. He settles for enjoying the hot water on his skin, and after drying and dressing, he goes to the kitchen and starts making breakfast. He prepares French toast and brews coffee, intending to bring Stiles breakfast in bed, but he doesn’t get the chance. Stiles wanders out, stretching and yawning, exposing a strip of pale belly skin and… something else. There’s a hint of deep blue fabric peeking out of the waistband of his jeans.

Stiles is wearing panties.

Peter can’t stop staring, mesmerised by the contrast between pale skin and delicate lace. He swallows, and manages, “Coffee’s ready.”

Stiles beams at him, leaning in and nuzzling at Peter’s throat. “So good to me, Alpha,” he practically purrs, and Peter has to turn away and distract himself by fussing over the toast, lest he bend Stiles over the counter right there. It would be unsanitary, he reminds himself desperately. Besides, the toast would burn.

There’s a warm body at his back and a chin on his shoulder as Stiles hums at the pan. “Did you make me breakfast? Thank you, mate of mine.” The words send a shiver up Peter’s spine. He tries to hide it, but he’s not sure he succeeds.

It takes all his willpower to turn and press a hand to Stiles’s chest, gently steering him back. “Careful sweetheart, I don’t want you to get burned.”

Stiles pouts prettily at him. “Can I at least have a kiss once you’re done?”

Peter leans forward and graces Stiles with a light, sexless peck. “There you go. Now let me concentrate, or breakfast will be ruined.”

“I wouldn’t mind,” Stiles murmurs, and lord, this boy will be the death of him yet.

Peter plasters on a playful smile. “You only say that because you haven’t tasted it yet.”

He turns back to the pan, makes a show of lifting it off the burner and transferring the sizzling slices of bread onto two plates and adding the spiced syrup that’s a family recipe. He holds a plate out to Stiles who takes it, moaning as he inhales deeply. It’s almost pornographic, and it doesn’t get any better when he dips the tip of his pinky in the syrup and then licks it off before putting the whole finger into his mouth and sucking, gazing at Peter soulfully.

Peter takes a deep breath, willing himself to keep control. He’s not sure what’s gotten into his young mate this morning, but it’s almost as if he’s trying to drive Peter to distraction. Focus, Peter scolds himself. He’s a grown man. He runs the city, for god’s sake. That doesn’t stop him having to hold back a whimper when Stiles licks the syrup off the edge of his plate.

“Tastes good.” Stiles’s tone is breathy, inviting. “Almost as good as you.” He licks his lips and breathes out, “I can think of other things we could put this syrup on.”

“Grandmother Hale would turn in her grave at us defiling her recipe,” Peter deflects, as he tries not to imagine the sugary sauce pooling in Stiles’s navel, all dark and sticky against the white, soft flesh, a feast for the senses. He picks up a slice of toast and shoves it into Stiles’s open mouth in an attempt to make him shut up, while he wonders how he’s going to make it through the weekend without disgracing himself. “Eat up,” he says briskly, pretending he’s not beyond desperate. “It’s no good cold.”

He carries his own plate over to the kitchen table and starts eating, studiously avoiding eye contact. Stiles seems to deflate somewhat, but he brings his own plate over and starts to eat, and Peter’s relieved to see he seems to have gotten the hint. He gets up and pours them both coffee, just so he doesn’t have to watch Stiles’s lush mouth stained with syrup.

Next time he makes breakfast, they’re having cereal.

* * *

Stiles is only slightly disappointed that Peter didn’t go for his breakfast routine. He hadn’t really expected it to work straight away. No, this is a work in progress. And once Peter does show interest, Stiles isn’t going to cave right away. He’s decided he wants Peter desperate, doesn’t want there to be any chance of him changing his mind at the last second like he did last night. 

He was definitely affected this morning. Stiles smiles to himself as he thinks of the shudder that ran through Peter when he called him “mate of mine,” appealing to all Peter’s possessive instincts. He’s suddenly grateful for all the hours of listening to Scott drone on about, “You don’t understand Stiles, as an alpha we have certain drives, things that we can’t help respond to.” At the time he’d thought Scott was full of shit, but it seems that for once he was right about some things.

Stiles intends to use that knowledge fully.

He eats quietly, lost in thought, and is startled when his phone rings. He doesn’t recognise the number.

“Hale?”

“Yes? Who is this?”

“Mulligans. Jeeps ready if you wanna pick it up.”

“Really? That was fast!” Stiles mouths ‘_garage, jeep’_ at Peter, who’s watching with interest.

“Told you. Not an exact science. When can you come by?” the man grunts.

“Lemme check when we can get there.”

Peter shrugs. “We can go after breakfast if you’d like.”

Stiles gives him a thumbs up. “Give me an hour?”

The man agrees, and Stiles bolts the rest of his breakfast, all deliberate attempts at seduction forgotten. Although, when he spills syrup on his shirt, he does make a show of wiggling his hips as he works it over his head, and he doesn’t exactly rush to cover up his bare chest. May as well take every opportunity, right?

Peter drives him over, and Stiles practically bounces out of the car when they arrive. The mechanic gives him a grin and hands him the keys. “All ready to go.”

The first thing Stiles notices is that the inside’s been detailed. Maybe it’s something fancy workshops do, he muses, or maybe it’s because of Peter being mayor. Either way, his car’s never been so clean – not an empty coke can in sight. He turns the key, and hears…nothing. No - not nothing, exactly, but no rattles, no squeaks, no weird graunching noises, none of the sounds that have been part of the soundtrack to his daily drive for years now. He revs the engine and it purrs smoothly. He turns the key off, frowns for a moment in confusion, and turns it on again. The jeep continues to not make any of the regular noises.

Stiles can’t shake the feeling more than just some bare-bones repairs have been done here, so he hops out and pops the hood. What greets him when he opens it is a brand- new engine. He whips his head round to the mechanic, eyes wide. “This isn’t what we agreed on, man. You were just going to keep her running. I can’t afford this!”

I just do what the mayor tells me, kid,” he nods at Peter, ”and he told me to give it a new motor and an overhaul, no expanse spared.”

“But the bill? This must have cost thousands!” Stiles is still in shock. How does Peter keep doing this, giving him what he didn’t even know he wanted?

“It’s all taken care of, sweetheart. I couldn’t in good conscience let you drive something unsafe.” Peter raises an eyebrow, daring Stiles to argue.

Not that Stiles is going to. Gift horses and mouths, right?

Stiles steps back from the jeep and walks around it slowly, and now that he’s looking properly, yes, he can see that the cracked tail light’s been repaired, two tires have been replaced, and the side mirror’s attached properly, instead of with zip ties. Peter’s watching with a satisfied smile, nodding his approval, and for once, Stiles is lost for words. His throat’s tight, and he doesn’t trust himself to speak anyway. Peter can’t possibly know what this means. Except maybe he does, because when Stiles takes a minute to get himself under control and finally rasps out, “Thank you,” Peter just wraps an arm around his shoulder.

“It seemed like something you’d like.” And there it is again, that affection, that thoughtfulness.

Stiles clears his throat. “I – yes. It’s perfect.” He leans against Peter’s side, lets himself be held, and to his credit the mechanic busies himself elsewhere and lets them have their moment. Soon enough though, Stiles recovers himself and twirls the keys around his finger. “So, does this mean she doesn’t grind in second?”

The mechanic lets out an offended grunt. “Better not – I replaced the gearbox. Take her for a spin.”

Sties clambers back into the driver’s seat, winding down the window and asking Peter, “You wanna come?”

Peter shakes his head. “I’ll meet you at home. Have fun, and don’t get a speeding ticket.”

Stiles laughs, “Nah, I’ve got an in with the sheriff.”

He turns the key again and sits there for a minute, just to revel in the quiet purr of the motor. Then he throws it into gear and drives, grinning the whole time.

* * *

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

Stiles stares at his hand, aghast. Peter must hear him swearing, and before Stiles knows it he’s there in the garage at his side, concern creasing his features. “Are you hurt? Is it bad? Do you need a doctor?”

“No, it’s.” Stiles can’t look away from his finger - from the ring on his finger, to be exact. The ring that’s missing not _one_, but _two_ diamonds. “I was poking around under the hood. I must have knocked it.” Peter glances at the open hood of the jeep and then peers down at the ring, and Stiles cringes internally. _Way to seduce your mate Stiles. Remind him what a clumsy idiot you are._ “Sorry,” he offers quietly. “They’re probably here somewhere. I can try and find them?”

Peter takes Stiles’s hand in his, examining the damage more closely. “Shoddy workmanship,” he mutters to himself, before giving Stiles’s hand a squeeze. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. This should never have happened. We can look for the stones, but regardless, I’ll be demanding a replacement. This is unacceptable.” His tone is cold, but his annoyance isn’t directed at Stiles.

Stiles has a moment of sympathy for whichever poor sap at the jewelers has to face Peter. “It was really my fault,” he argues. “I should have taken it off, or been more careful or something. I’m so sorry.”

Peter turns a steely gaze on him. “It was an accident, nothing more. Don’t upset yourself. A ring should be able to withstand a day’s work. The stones were obviously improperly set. Now, shall we bother trying to find them?”

Stiles has to do a double take. “Are you serious? _Yes_, we’ll try and find them- they’re freaking _diamonds,_ Peter!”

With that, he drops to his knees on the concrete floor and sticks his head under the jeep. He can’t see shit, and he’s just about to ask for a flashlight when he hears Peter’s sharp intake of breath, and it occurs to him exactly how this must look. He’s on his hands and knees, basically presenting. Stiles drops down lower onto his elbows and parts his legs further, arching his back, knowing Peter can see the top edge of his lacy underwear. He gives a gentle sway of his hips, just to sweeten the pot. Warm hands settle on his hips and Peter’s grip is tight, his voice rough. “Get up, and we’ll check under the hood first.”

Stiles presses back into the grip just a little, and he makes sure to roll his spine in a curve before he stands. Peter’s hands stay where they are, helping him up, and then Peter’s plastered against his back, and Peter’s scenting him. Stiles waits just a beat before moving forward so he’s just out of reach. “You got a flashlight?”

Peter’s brow creases, but then he strides over to a cabinet and pulls out a big halogen torch. “This should work.”

It’s the work of minutes to find the stones – one was nestled near the spark plugs, one near the battery.

Stiles grins when Peter holds out a hand with the diamonds, and then makes a show of grabbing the hem of his t shirt and pulling it up to wipe his face, showing off his belly (and maybe the satin bow at the front of his underwear, a little – the way these jeans sit low is no accident). “I’m filthy,” he observes casually. “I think I’ll go shower.” He runs his shirt over his face again, and nods at Peter, who’s staring openmouthed. “You want me to put those away?”

Peter stares at the ring and the stones in his hand like he’s never seen them before, but he soon recovers. “Uh. It’s fine. I’ll take care of it.” He whirls on his heel and marches inside, not looking back.

Stiles grins. it started out as a disaster, but somehow he’s pretty sure this just turned into a win.

* * *

Peter’s hand moves furiously as he strips his cock, tiny grunts escaping between clenched teeth. As soon as he heard the water running for Stiles’s shower, Peter had bolted into the other bathroom, cock throbbing and desperate. If he doesn’t do something, he feels like he might go mad with need. So here he is, jerking off to the mental image of Stiles peeling those damned panties down those long lean thighs.

He comes quickly, is barely satisfied. All it’s done is take the edge off – for now. He sighs and hauls his jeans back up from where he’d shoved them down his thighs and washes his hands. He needs to keep a lid on his desire – he won’t be the type of alpha who forces his mate.

_“There’s nothing wrong with a little gentle persuasion. Omegas want it, even when they think they don’t.”_

Peter’s father’s voice echoes unbidden in his thoughts, and Peter shudders at the memory. Remembers the night he was forced to sit at the dinner table, on his best behavior, and listen as Gerard fucking Argent sneered at him, called him pretty and somehow made it an insult.

* * *

“Any sign of your pretty boy presenting yet, Andrew?”

Peter’s father had shaken his head. “There’s time. He’s only twelve. I’m sure he’ll be a fine alpha.” 

Gerard had snorted. “This one? He has omega written all over him. Look at that pretty face, those lips. Not an alpha bone in his body.”

Peter had stared at his plate and kept his silence as his father had protested laughingly, “Let a man have a little hope Gerard. He might turn out all right yet.”

Gerard had considered Peter closely, tilting his chin up, and Peter, annoyed at being discussed like a piece of furniture, had held his gaze, unflinching. “Perhaps,” Gerard had allowed after a moment, letting go of Peter’s chin after far too long. “But if he is, he won’t have the backbone to control a mate.”

_Good, _Peter had thought. _I don’t want to control anybody, not if it means being like you. _The intensity of his reaction surprised him, and Gerard must have read something of it in his eyes, because he’d flicked Peter’s cheek and grunted, “Attitude, boy.” He’d fixed his gaze on Peter’s father. “ Whatever this one turns out to be, he’ll give you trouble, I can already tell.”

Gerard’s wife sat quietly at his side as always, the picture of perfect grooming, nodding at anything her husband said, but Peter had looked up in surprise when his own mother had spoken up – an almost unheard-of event in their household, especially with a guest present. “Peter’s a good boy. If he’s an alpha, I’m sure he’ll be kind to his mate. And if he turns out to be an omega, then some alpha will be very lucky.”

Her husband had shot her a look and she’d gone quiet, but Peter had taken those words to heart. His mother thought he had it in him to be a kind alpha, something he already knew his own father wasn’t. He determined there and then that if he _was_ an alpha, he’d let kindness shape how he treated his partner. He’d stayed quiet for the rest of the meal, but had heard his father and Gerard talking later over their brandy and cigars as he sat quietly at the table doing homework.

“You’re too soft on your mate, Andrew,” Gerard had said, waving his cigar for emphasis. “My meg would never dare talk back to me like that.”

“Hmm. Was it talking back, really? She didn’t disagree with me.”

“Still, she thought it fine to have an opinion in company. That’s something I trained my Annabel out of early on. Took some time, some strong discipline, but I did it. She doesn’t say a word without looking to me first.”

Peter’s father had nodded. “I hear you, but I find with mine, I get better results ignoring her. She comes around pretty quick at that.”

“They really are simple creatures,” Gerard had chuckled. “They don’t know what they want.” He took a swig of brandy, and leaned in closer. “Mine tried to turn me down in bed at first, but I soon found out how to make her beg. Get them wet and they’re weak for it.”

“Some gentle persuasion never hurts. Omegas want it, even when they think they don’t. And once you’ve had them in heat, they’re yours for life.”

“Well, exactly. Is there anything better than a needy meg bitch who begs for it first, and thanks you after?” The two men had clinked glasses, and Peter had slipped out of the room, unable to stomach listening to any more of their horrifying rhetoric, and terrified that this might be his future.

* * *

There were plenty of other, similar dinners with the Argents, but that one always stuck in Peter’s mind.

He was almost ashamed at how relieved he felt when he popped his first baby knot eight months later, but even as his father had clapped him on the back and congratulated him, he’d also remembered what his mother had said about being kind. Peter desperately wanted to be kind, but he worried that it wasn’t in his nature, not really. But he vowed to try, at least.

Argent had taken it personally when Peter had presented as an alpha – it turned out he’d had plans to mate Peter to his alpha son. Truth be told, Peter wouldn’t even have minded – Chris Argent was good company, quiet and steady, knew his own mind – but instead, the boys ended up firm friends. Peter wonders what Gerard would say if he knew that they mainly bonded over an unspoken determination to never, ever turn out like their fathers.

Peter and Gerard’s mutual dislike only grew stronger over the years, with Gerard taking every chance to make Peter’s life difficult. Not that it didn’t cut both ways – watching Gerard grit his teeth and concede defeat in the last mayoral race had been one of the sweetest moments of Peter’s life.

But in retaliation, this time around Gerard had latched onto Peter’s unmated status and wielded it like a weapon, forcing his hand. So far Peter had dodged every offer of mating, quite content to live alone, but he couldn’t put it off any longer, not with Gerard trumpeting about traditional values, strong families. Peter had finally been forced to consider settling for one of the cookie cutter omegas that seemed to be thrust at him from every direction, and resigned himself to the awful Meet and Greet mixer.

But then he met Stiles. Stiles, who had a spark to him, a liveliness, the kind of spirit that was so often frowned upon, and Peter had known immediately that he wouldn’t be cowed. Peter had been unexpectedly drawn to him, and right from their first conversation, he could see this working. The fact Stiles was John’s son, and undeniably attractive, was honestly just the icing on the cake.

It had been confirmed that Stiles knew his own mind when he’d asked to go to college, and Peter had been quick to agree. It was the same when Stiles had asked for a heat suppressant without checking in with Peter first – he’d been willing to go along with it, if it made Stiles happy.

So far, it’s been better than Peter ever could have dreamed, and he’d like it to stay that way – if he can just suppress his urge to knot. He decides if he at least tries to keep a respectable distance between them, his chances of controlling his urges will improve. Peter will just have to make sure he’s not in a position where he’ll be tempted by smooth skin and the scent of arousal and damned lace panties.

Even thinking about Stiles has him hardening again, and he lets out a groan and slides his jeans back down, unable to resist.

He’s lucky Stiles takes long showers.

* * *

When Stiles comes out of the bathroom, he finds Peter sitting on the couch watching a documentary, seemingly engrossed. “Hey. What’re you watching?”

“History of modern autopsies.” Peter nods at the seat next to him. “Join me?”

Stiles holds up a hand. “Nope. No blood. Or needles. Or, y’know, people getting chopped up.”

“You don’t mind if I watch?” Peter continues to stare at the screen, where they’re doing…something with a skull and a saw. Stiles looks away.

He’d half planned to try and cosy up to Peter, but autopsies? Nope. Boner killer right there, not conductive to a good seduction at all. But he can hardly say that, so he just shakes his head. “I’ll be in my office.” He still gets a thrill saying the words.

Peter nods absently. “I thought we’d go out for dinner, later. Maybe invite your father?”

Shit. That’s not exactly seduction friendly either, but it will look odd if Stiles says no. “I’ll call, see if he’s free.”

“I thought Mexican,” Peter calls after him.

Stiles suppresses a sigh. Pasta, he could have worked with. But how the hell do you make nachos sexy with your father watching? _Agreeable_, he reminds himself. _Alphas like it when you’re agreeable_. “Sounds good!” he yells from the office, and settles in to watch a movie on his laptop.

Time gets away from him, and he startles when Peter knocks on the open door. “Dinner’s in an hour, sweetheart.”

Stiles nods and pauses the movie, standing and stretching, rolling his shoulders, before squeezing past Peter in the doorway. “I’ll get dressed. Where are going? Sketchy Mexican or decent Mexican?”

Peter raises an eyebrow. “You even have to ask?”

Stiles grins. “I’ll dress nice.”

He does, too. While Peter showers, Stiles chooses a dark collared shirt that shows off the long lines of his torso, and a pair of slim-cut dress pants that leave nothing to the imagination. He messes with his hair till it has that just-fucked look, and bites at his lips so they’re reddened and plump. He looks in the mirror, undoes another button on his shirt. He’s just smoothing the front of his shirt down when Peter emerges from the bathroom. “Will this do?” Stiles asks, rolling his cuffs up to mid-forearm.

Peter barely glances at him. “Very suitable.” He bustles about dressing himself, and Stiles could swear Peter’s avoiding him. He doesn’t let it worry him, though. The night is young, after all.

They meet John at the restaurant, and Stiles takes in every inch of his dad. He looks good, healthy. Like he’s coping perfectly well without Stiles there to take care of him. Stiles is pleased to see it. They order dinner, and, mindful they’re in public, Stiles makes sure to ask Peter’s permission before he orders a frozen margarita. Peter’s mouth quirks up into a grin. “Tequila? You’re sure?”

“I’ve never tried one – underage. But now I’m with you, I get to do _all_ the fun stuff.” Stiles licks his lips suggestively. Peter raises his eyebrow but doesn’t comment, instead studying the menu with an intensity it doesn’t warrant, since it hasn’t changed since 2007.

The starters arrive, and Stiles is delighted to find that the cheese dip is the perfect consistency for him to pour into his mouth off a corn chip, flicking his tongue out to catch the drips. Peter glances over once or twice, but then turns to his dad and engages him in a discussion about election statistics, and Stiles is left sitting there with a soggy chip and no audience.

Things pick up when his margarita arrives, because it has a straw, and it’s no effort at all to suck lewdly on the straw. He thinks he hears Peter’s breath catch, but all his mate says is, ”You do know drinking through a straw will make the alcohol hit your system faster, don’t you sweetheart?” before going back to talking about voter turnout percentages and projected win margins. Stiles slurps the last of his drink loudly and sighs. Maybe he’s not a fan of tequila after all.

Peter excuses himself to use the bathroom, and it’s while he’s gone that John takes a hold of Stiles’s left hand. “Son, I don’t like to pry, but is there a reason you’ve asked me out and you’re not wearing your ring? Are you softening me up with quesadillas to give me bad news?”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “The stones weren’t set properly and two came out while I was working on the jeep. Ring’s in Peter’s office. We’re taking it for repairs tomorrow.”

John’s face scrunches up as he hisses. “How mad was Peter?”

Stiles shakes his head. “He wasn’t, not at me. He was actually really sweet about it.” He wonders vaguely when Peter became someone he’d describe as sweet. “The jewellers though? He’s totally gonna rip them a new one.”

John nods approvingly. “So he should, the price he paid for it.”

Stiles cocks his head. “Do I want to know?”

“Probably not. You’d be afraid to wear it.” Stiles isn’t even surprised. “What was wrong with the jeep?”

“Oh! Nothing. Peter had a complete overhaul done on it, and I was just looking at the new motor.”

John chokes on his corn chip. “A new motor? In that old thing?”

Stiles grins. “Right? Said he thought I’d like it.”

“Sounds like he’s pretty gone on you,” John muses, and Stiles knows what he’s asking.

“Uh huh. It’s great. I have everything I could want,” Stiles lies, just to see his father’s face break out in a relieved grin.

It’s mostly true, he tells himself. And what he doesn’t have, he’ll soon get, as long as everything goes according to plan.

* * *

It does not go according to plan.

Stiles is doing his best to make his nachos seductive, and he thinks he might be having the tiniest bit of success with the way Peter keeps glancing at his lips. He decides to up the ante. “This is sooo good. Thank you, _Alpha_,” he purrs, picking up a tiny red chili pepper and tracing it over his lips.

“You’re welcome, sweet boy,” Peter answers, his eyes glued to the chili. Encouraged, Stiles slides it in and out of his mouth a couple of times, sucking on the tip. Peter licks his own lips absently, and Stiles grins around his prize.

He’s not really thinking when he bites down, is expecting a mild bite, maybe enough to make his lips tingle, so he can invite Peter to, “come here, taste this.”

What he gets is a mouth full of wasps. Wasps who are on fire. Wasps who are on fire and very, very, angry, and are stinging his tongue and throat with death lasers. He chokes and gasps and grabs at the closest water glass, throwing it back in an effort to make the burning stop. It doesn’t help. His mouth is full of actual flames, he’s sure of it.

“Gah! Help!’he cries out, and now his nose is running, his eyes are streaming, he’s coughing up something, either a lung or a wasp, he’s not sure which. He can’t feel his lips anymore, but the rest of his throat is agony. He gasps in air, and a waiter comes running with a glass of milk. Stiles takes it and chugs it, and blessedly, it gives some small relief. He drinks another few mouthfuls. The burn eases further, but it still feels like his tongue’s been stabbed with red hot needles.

He blinks the tears away and wipes his face with a napkin, aware that right now he’s the opposite of sexy, and to make it worse his father’s snickering. “What the hell were you thinking kid? You don’t bite into a chili like that!”

Stiles takes a couple of deep breaths, and it would be a lie to say he doesn’t feel a little betrayed by Peter’s amused smile. “I – I don’t know, it was little, so I figured it wouldn’t be too bad?”

Peter starts laughing as well, and Stiles feels his hackles rise just for a second, but then Peter’s reaching across the table with his napkin, dabbing gently at Stiles’s face, catching a stray tear. “Have you never learned the first rule of chili sweetheart? The smaller the deadlier.” Stiles wants to pout, but it’s hard to stay mad when Peter’s laughter trails off almost immediately, when his touch is so tender. His hand lingers on the side of Stiles’s face, and he asks quietly, “Are you all right?”

Stiles nods, which quickly devolves into another coughing fit. Peter sighs and signals for a waiter. “Banana milkshake, extra-large, extra ice cream, quick as you can, please.” The man nods and scurries away, and Peter turns his attention back to Stiles, who’s managed to catch his breath. His _undivided_ attention, Stiles is quick to note. “The milkshake will help, sweet boy,” he coos, all care and concern, and Stiles melts a little bit. Peter traces a thumb over his lips. “Poor boy. Your mouth is all puffy.”

Stiles is able to breathe a bit better, and he takes the opportunity that presents itself. “They’re all tingly,” he says, his tone all breathlessness and helplessness rolled into one, and he notes with satisfaction the way that Peter has to swallow suddenly.

His milkshake arrives, and he doesn’t have to fake the pleased sounds he makes as he sucks in a mouthful of blessed relief, eyes closed. “Mmmm, better,” he hums, licking and twirling the straw absently with his tongue. When he opens his eyes, Peter’s watching him intently, eyes dark. He takes another sip, deliberately hollowing out his cheeks this time, putting a little extra something into the sounds he makes. Peter’s hand tightens around the napkin he’s holding until his knuckles are white.

John clears his throat, drawing their attention. “Better, son?”

“Mhmm.” Stiles nods around his straw, still taking tiny sips because it really is helping. “ ’s good.”

“It looks delicious,” Peter agrees, and to Stiles it seems like he’s doing his best to look away and failing.

Excellent.

He licks the end of the straw delicately, chasing stray drops. “I always did like something creamy in my mouth.”

His father groans, burying his face in his hands. “Jesus, Stiles. Did I need to hear that at dinner? Time and place, kiddo.”

“Sorry,” Stiles says, not sorry at all. He goes back to sucking lewdly.

Peter clears his throat. “I think we’ll skip dessert if that’s alright with you, John.”

John nods his agreement and he and Stiles leave while Peter pays the bill. Stiles rubs the back of one hand across his eyes, which are still watering a little, and his dad slings an arm over his shoulder as they walk out the door. Stiles leans into the touch – he’s missed his dad even though it’s only been a matter of weeks, determines to go see him more often.

Stiles watches his dad drive away and leans against the car while he waits for Peter, eyes closed, enjoying the night air. He’s startled when he hears a voice in his ear. “Well, well, well. Hale’s new meg, all alone in in the dark.”

His eyes snap open to see Gerard Argent, holding a takeout bag and standing uncomfortably close. “You alpha often leave you unsupervised, little one?”

Stiles stands quickly, skin crawling at the man’s mere presence. He wants nothing more than to snap at him to fuck off, but he knows how Argent works, that he’ll take any chance to run Peter’s reputation into the ground, so instead he dips his head in an approximation of respect. “No, Mr. Argent. He’s just paying for dinner and he asked me to wait here. He should be along any second.”

Gerard steps closer, and Stiles’s stomach clenches. “Still. It’s hardly proper.” He leans in closer, forcing Stiles to lean back against the car, and just by looking into his eyes Stiles can tell the man’s unhinged. Gerard grips his chin firmly, and Stiles freezes. “Good omegas don’t leave their mate’s sides. Anything could happen to you,” he hisses, and for a split second, Stiles is actually, genuinely terrified, heart hammering like it’s going to burst out of his chest.

Just for a second though, because there’s a low growl, almost animal – an _Alpha_ growl, and Peter’s right there, hand on Argent’s collar, dragging him away and snarling out, “_What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”_

Argent twists in Peter’s grip, shrugging him off. “Calm down, boy. I was just making sure nobody harmed your mate, since you left him unattended.” He steps away, his face a rictus of false concern. “What if it hadn’t been me, but someone with unsavory intentions?”

Peter steps in front of Stiles shielding him with his body. “You should leave.” It’s not a suggestion. Gerard looks like he has more to say, but Peter’s lips curve up in a sneer and he spits out, “Where’s _your _mate, Gerard? Who’s supervising her while you’re here harassing Stiles?”

Argent stiffens at that, and he stalks away without another word.

Stiles’s muscles turn to liquid and he slumps forwards against Peter’s back, wrapping his arms around his mate, simultaneously relieved and ashamed of himself. What the hell was that? All those self-defense lessons when he was young, and at the first sign of a threat he freezes and has to be rescued by his alpha like a damsel in distress?

Peter must sense that he’s still upset, because he turns and pulls Stiles in close, cupping a hand around the base of his neck, holding him there. “Shhh, sweetheart, just breathe.” His soothing voice, his scent, his warmth and closeness, all combine in a way that speaks of comfort to Stiles’s omega instincts. Stiles buries his head in the crook of Peter’s neck and takes a series of deep, calming breaths. “That’s it sweetheart, take a minute.” Stiles’s heart stops racing quite so fast, and he lets Peter take his weight. Last time he did this, he thinks dimly, Peter had just proposed. Peter’s hand strokes the back of his neck. “It’s all right, sweet boy. You’re safe.”

And he is, Stiles knows it, but it still rankles that he couldn’t take care of himself. “Shouldn’t have needed rescuing,” he mutters against Peter’s collarbone.

“No, you shouldn’t have.” The words make Stiles’s belly curl uncomfortably, and he wonders if Peter thinks less of him now, but then Peter says, “That despicable old fuck should never have approached you. I’m surprised you didn’t punch him.”

“I wanted to tell him to fuck off,” Stiles mumbles, “But, election.” He doesn’t have words to explain further, and knows Peter will understand. And he does.

He pulls back and cups Stiles’ face in his hands. “Stiles, I want you to listen to me. You have my permission to punch Gerard Argent in the face if he ever touches you again, okay? If he makes you feel unsafe, you do what you need to do.” There’s nothing but concern in Peter’s gaze.

“What about –“ Stiles falters, still off kilter.

“Fuck voter opinion,” Peter says firmly, and pulls Stiles close again, nestling his head in the crook of his neck so what he says next is slightly muffled, but Stiles still grins when he hears it. “Honestly, it would probably boost my figures.”

* * *

There's no seduction attempt that night -Stiles is still shaken so Peter just holds him close and finds a movie, an old classic they’ve both seen, and they watch as Stiles soaks up the comfort. Halfway through he thinks to ask, “Where is his wife, anyway?”

“Visiting her sister.”

“So? What’s the big deal?”

Peter smirks. “She’s been ‘visiting her sister’ for close to a year now.”

Stiles tilts his head so he can see Peter better. “What are you telling me, exactly?”

“Just that nobody’s seen her in forever.”

From Peter’s expression, Stiles suspects there’s more to it, and a horrible thought strikes him. “You don’t think he, like buried her in the backyard, do you?”

Peter rolls his eyes. “Yes, Stiles. I think my main political rival bumped off his wife and I’m sitting here doing absolutely nothing about it.”

“Oh. Stiles is quiet for a minute, thinking. “So, where is she then?”

“You know, I’m not entirely sure. She might actually be at her sister’s, who knows? But as soon as anyone asks, Gerard clams up, so I knew mentioning it would get him to leave.”

Stiles shudders. “I really don’t like that guy. He gives me the creeps.”

Peter kisses the top of his head. “Same. He was a friend of my father’s and he’s just gotten creepier over the years.”

Peter never mentions his parents, and Stiles is intrigued. He takes the opening. “Soooo, does that mean you dad was…like him?” he asks carefully.

Peter tenses, but his voice is level. “Not quite as bad. But he did have very…traditional values.”

Stiles starts running his fingertips gently down Peter’s exposed forearm, tracing the muscles there. “Is that why you don’t?”

“I’m not interested in being like him.” It’s said in such a way that Stiles knows when to leave well enough alone.

Still, he turns the new bit of information over in his mind, and things start to click into place, make a little more sense.

* * *

Peter can’t sleep.

Stiles passed out early on, probably exhausted from the adrenaline rush of Gerard fucking Argent threatening him, but Peter’s emotions are running haywire right now, and he can’t settle. He knows he should get out of bed, stop tossing and turning, but he finds he’s unable to let Stiles out of his sight, even though his rational brain knows there’s no threat. So he settles himself against the headboard and just…watches.

Stiles is not an elegant sleeper. He twitches and kicks like a puppy dreaming of chasing rabbits, mouth open, neck at such an awkward angle that Peter can’t stand it, is forced to ease his head gently to the side and settle him on his pillow. Stiles snuffle-snorts and tenses, but then he relaxes, sliding into a boneless heap against the bedding. Peter shakes his head fondly.

He still wants to wring Gerard’s neck for what he did, daring to lay his hands on Stiles as if he had any right, but he shoves the impulse down, recognizing it for what it is, just his protective urges going into overdrive. Violence isn’t the answer, despite what he told Stiles.

But Argent crossed the line, and Peter can’t let it stand. He lets his fingers card through Stiles’s hair as he contemplates his options. It’s been a while since he spoke to Chris – maybe it’s time for him to make some calls, find out exactly where Annabelle Argent has been for the past year, and see if he can’t use that knowledge. Peter smiles softly to himself, and some of his own tension eases. It soothes something in him, plotting his revenge. He’s not sure what that says about him as a person, and he’s not sure he cares.

He wants nothing more right now that to cradle Stiles in his arms, hold him close, but he won’t. His blood’s still fizzing from Stiles teasing him, wearing those damn panties, and coupled with how possessive he feels right now, he knows it’ll only lead him places he doesn’t want to – no, _can’t_ – go right now.

He didn’t think it would be like this. He wasn’t expecting to be so affected by having a mate. He’d honestly naively thought they could live together platonically, sharing friendship and a mailing address.

He was so, so wrong. He _wants _Stiles, is bewitched and besotted, hungry for him all the time, but he’s afraid to hurt him, and he doesn’t know what to do about it.

But he’s going to have to figure it out, and soon.

* * *

Sunday is when Stiles ups his game.

He knows Peter’s feeling possessive and decides to exploit it. When he wakes and Peter’s in the shower, Stiles doesn’t hesitate to join him. “Just need cuddles,” Stiles mumbles against Peter’s back, hands reaching round and running over the skin of Peter’s belly, knowing Peter won’t refuse him

After a minute or so, Stiles lets his hands creep south. He starts mouthing at the base of Peter’s neck, and presses his half hard cock forward, making it clear that it’s not comfort he’s seeking, not anymore. Peter closes his eyes and breathes deeply, and Stiles is certain it’s working, right until Peter turns in Stiles grasp, knocking the cold tap as he does so, turning it all the way on. Stiles squawks and flails and jumps back out of the spray, and it effectively kills the mood and Stiles’s boner. Peter shrugs out an apology, and strides towards the bedroom wrapped in a towel, not looking back.

Peter dresses quickly, deflecting when Stiles tries to draw him onto an embrace. “Not this morning, sweetheart. I have some calls to make.” Stiles doesn’t bother getting offended. Instead, he dangles two pairs of lace underwear from his fingertips, flutters his lashes, and asks, “Which one?” Peter glances up, his eyes widen, he points at random, and then he bolts for his office, pointedly closing the door. Stiles allows himself a moment of triumph. His plan’s working.

He stays away for a couple of hours, and Peter wasn’t lying, Stiles can hear him talking, indistinct murmuring coming through the door. About eleven, Stiles puts together a plate of cheese and crackers, smoked meats and cocktail onions, and other assorted treats, all things he knows Peter loves, and knocks on the door. Peter opens it, eyebrows raised in inquiry, and Stiles holds the plate out. “You missed breakfast Alpha, I thought I’d better take care of you,” he coos.

Peter’s expression softens. “Thank you, sweetheart.”

Stiles holds up a cherry tomato and pops it into Peter’s unresisting mouth. “There’s enough for two. Join me, if you’re done?”

Peter glances back at his desk, hesitating, so Stiles turns on his best bambi eyes. They stopped working on his dad a couple of years ago, but apparently Peter’s not immune yet, because he sighs and closes the door. “I’m done.”

Stiles makes a game of it, teasing as he feeds Peter crackers and brie and rolled up slices of salami with a soft smile from where he’s planted himself in Peter’s lap. Peter’s erection is obvious, but Stiles pretends not to notice, rocks against it as if by accident. When he thinks Peter’s a hair’s breadth away from snapping, he climbs off his lap, taking the empty plate and sashaying over to the kitchen sink. He turns, leans back against the counter on his elbows with his legs spread wide, and asks, “Is there anything else you’d like, Alpha?” in the sluttiest voice he can manage.

Peter closes his eyes and breathes deeply through his nose before replying. “Actually, yes.” Stiles leans forwards hopefully. “A glass of cold water would be lovely. And the we have to go if we want to get to the jeweler’s today.”

Stiles deflates, gives stupid Peter his stupid glass of water, and wonders what the hell else he’s meant to do.

* * *

“Be nice,” Stiles reminds him as they pull up outside the jewelers.

Peter rolls his eyes. “I’ll be the epitome of charm. It’s what I do.”

And he will be, too – unless the jeweler refuses to replace the ring. In which case he’ll take out his increasing frustration on the first available target. It’s not fair, he knows, but he’s itching for a fight or a fuck, and if he can’t have one, he’ll settle for the other. _You could though_, an insistent voice whispers_. Stiles wouldn’t mind. He wants it. He’s begging for it._

Peter seriously considers it for all of two seconds, wonders what Stiles would say if Peter turned the car around, found them a motel, and fucked Stiles’s brains out. The way he’s been acting, he’d probably thank Peter for it.

_“Is there anything better than a needy meg bitch who begs for it first, and thanks you after?” _The memory of Argent’s words is more effective than a slap to the face, killing any thoughts of a passionate afternoon Peter might have been entertaining, however idly. Stiles deserves better, and as soon as Peter works out what better is, he’ll make sure to give it to him. He does know that whatever that is, it’s not being bruised to hell by Peter’s stupidly big knot.

Fingers snap in front of his face. “Peter?” Stiles sounds uncertain. “You with me?”

Peter’s head jerks up. “What?”

“You ok? You kinda…went away for a minute there.” Stiles’s leg is jiggling nervously, and Peter wants to grab it, hold it down, hold _him _down, hold him open, sink into the hot, needy cunt –

“Peter!”

When Peter looks down, he sees his hands are clenched into fists. He takes a deep, steadying breath, then another. “Apologies, sweetheart. It’s nothing.”

Stiles frowns. “Didn’t seem like nothing.”

“I’m just a little tense. Big month coming up with the election,” Peter lies, forcing his face into a practised politician’s smile. Stiles can’t know what he’s thinking. Stiles stares at him intently but Peter doesn’t let his façade crack, and Stiles turns away, apparently satisfied by whatever he sees.

It’s as they’re walking up to the store that Stiles stops dead, drops to one knee and bends over, practically presenting in the middle of the street. Peter walks smack bang into him, nearly tripping. “Sorry. Shoelace.” Stiles takes an inordinately long time to do the errant lace up, leaving Peter with nothing to do but stand there staring at his pert ass as it waggles temptingly in the air. Peter’s hands clench and unclench as they itch with the temptation to drag Stiles up by his hips and throw him over the hood, take him right there, and the intensity of his want shocks him. He bites back the urge to snarl at Stiles to _‘get up and stop putting yourself on show.’ _Instead he takes Stiles’s elbow and helps him up, leading him into the store so he doesn’t have to look at his ass.

The staff are quietly horrified at the state of Stiles’s ring, all apologies and assurances that _this never happens Mr Hale, let us replace that immediately Mr Hale, would you like some complimentary cufflinks, Mr Hale?_

Peter’s almost disappointed that he doesn’t get to go into battle. “It’s all very well offering me cufflinks, but it’s Stiles who had the horrific experience of his claiming band falling apart,” he observes tartly, just because he can.

“Of course. I meant for both of you, obviously,” the manager says smoothly, and Peter once again has the wind taken out of his sails.

Luckily there’s a replacement ring in the proper size available, and they’re able to leave in short order, Stiles making a show of admiring his new ring. “Thank you. I know it was a long drive and you’ve got a lot going on.”

Peter gives a careless shrug. “It’s fine, sweetheart. We should head back, though.”

Just before they get in the car, Stiles stops Peter with a hand on his arm. Peter turns, and Stiles wraps his arms around his neck and pulls him in for a kiss, slow and sweet and tender. “I appreciate it. I appreciate _you_,” he whispers, and somehow that does more to set Peter’s blood boiling than all of Stiles’s previous teasing. He stands there, poleaxed, while Stiles climbs into the passenger seat, whistling.

* * *

The drive back seems endless, the thrum of the road under the tires a counterpoint to the blood pounding in Peter’s head, a persistent rhythm of _want,want,want_, _need,need,need. _Peter’s silent as he drives, his mind replaying the way Stiles had looked on their claiming night, how he’d begged for more, and Peter’s cock is throbbing uncomfortably, but he resolutely ignores it in favor of watching the road. Stiles tries to speak to him once or twice, but the best Peter can manage is a nod, and so Stiles settles in with his phone, playing some sort of game. His long, elegant fingers dance over the keys, and Peter imagines them wrapped around his cock. Stiles stretches, and all Peter sees is Stiles with his arms thrown above his head while he fucks him. Stiles hums along with the radio, and Peter’s thoughts immediately turn to how Stiles would sound with his throat full of Peter’s dick. It’s hopeless.

Halfway through the trip, Peter pulls over at a gas station. Stiles glances over. “Are you okay? You look a little off.”

“I’m not feeling well. You should drive.”

Stiles sits bolt upright. “But – it’s the Cobra. You said only you ever get to drive it.”

“Yes, and now I’m changing my mind,” Peter snaps. “Can you drive it or not?”

Stiles’s face lights up. “_Oh, hell yes_.” He makes grabby hand for the keys and doesn’t even mention that Peter got pissy with him, and that just makes Peter feel worse. What on earth is wrong with him today?

Stiles takes a minute to familiarise himself with the dash and adjust the mirrors and then he pulls out smoothly, like he’s been driving the thing all his life. Despite how out of sorts he feels, Peter takes a quiet delight in the grin that’s plastered on Stiles’s face for the rest of the ride home. Not that he sees much of it – within minutes he finds himself sinking into the passenger seat and closing his eyes almost against his will, and he must doze for a good chunk of time, because when he wakes they’re just passing the Beacon Hills city limits.

“Hey, sleeping beauty, feeling better?”

Peter blinks, shakes his head, and tries to decide. He has that sort of low-grade fuzziness that comes from an unplanned nap, and there’s a crick in his neck, but at least his cock’s gone soft. He settles for “Fuzzy.”

Stiles nods and keeps driving, and Peter spends the rest of the trip watching the flex of the muscles in Stiles’s forearms, thinking about how they’d look if Stiles was clutching at the bedsheets.

They pull in the driveway and Peter levers himself out of the car while Stiles walks up the steps ahead of him. He pauses and turns. “You really don’t look good. Grilled cheese, a bath and an early night?”

It’s not even close to what Peter wants, what he needs. What he wants is Stiles, naked and eager, spread out underneath him. What he _needs_ is to knot his mate again and again, until neither of them can move. He could get Stiles inside right now, could eat him out and make him beg, go slow and careful and pump him so full -

Shit.

The want that’s been flooding through him all day hasn’t gone away after all, apparently.

Stiles brow creases in concern. “Peter?” He takes a step closer. “Hey, c’mere. Let’s get you inside.”

Peter’s arm shoots out and he grabs Stiles by the wrist, drags him in close. “Need to hold you,” he mumbles, burying his face in the curve of Stiles’s throat. “Please?”

Stiles relaxes into his hold and lets himself be scented. As the pheromones flood his nostrils, it’s like Peter’s surfacing from underwater, able to think more clearly, the insistent need dulled somewhat by Stiles’s closeness. Stiles smells incredible, and Peter can’t get enough, but eventually Stiles nudges him.

“We should probably go inside. If Mr Johnson waters those petunias any harder he’s gonna flood his yard.” Stiles nods subtly at the neighbor across the street who’s openly staring while his hose runs, unheeded.

Peter pulls away, feeling unaccountably soothed and at least somewhat back in control. “Right. Inside.”

Once they’re indoors, Peter holds out his hand, waiting. Stiles gives him a wide-eyed, innocent look, but Peter raises one eyebrow. Stiles sighs, fishes the Cobra keys out of his pocket, and hands them over. “Worth a try,” he grins. “That thing is awesome.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed it.” Peter has a sudden, inexplicable urge to please his mate. “Since you handled it so well, perhaps you can take it out again in the future.”

Stiles beams. “Really?”

Peter moves closer, pockets the keys, and slings his arms around Stiles’s neck. “Really.” He starts to press small kisses up the side of Stiles’s neck, and Stiles tilts his head back and melts against him. Yes, good, this is what Peter wants, his boy pliant and willing. He closes his eyes and nips and nuzzles, getting lost in the taste and scent of his omega, his mate. This is as it should be, his boy should always be ready for him, ready to be fucked and filled and bred –

No.

He’s not that man. He’ll never be that man. His stomach lurches, and Peter shoves Stiles away from him.

Stiles stands there, confused. “I -I don’t feel well,” Peter stammers out, and rushes past him to the bathroom, slamming the door. His gorge rises and for a minute he thinks he’s going to be sick, but it’s a false alarm. He ends up sitting on the floor, back against the wall, with his head resting on his knees and his arms wrapped around himself, taking shaky breaths.

Whatever this is, it’s not normal. To make matters worse, the persistent throbbing of his cock hasn’t gone away. Peter groans, strips out of his clothes, and gets into the shower, where he jerks off furiously. It’s quick and unsatisfying, but it at least takes some of the edge off, enough that he can gather his thoughts. He watches the last of his release swirl down the drain and sighs. He’s never been this desperate, this needy before, and it frightens him, the way he’s so close to snapping.

It’s Stiles’s doing, he decides. All that teasing has gotten to him. He’s going to have to talk to him, explain that he can’t stir Peter up like that, that it makes Peter want him in ways he can’t have him, confess that he’s scared of a repeat performance of last time. 

He’ll have to approach it carefully. He doesn’t want Stiles to think he’s undesirable, but he also doesn’t want him to think that Peter’s a wild animal who wants to ravage him at every opportunity. That wasn’t part of their agreement.

It’ll have to be tomorrow. He’s not nearly together enough to hold a conversation tonight. But Peter’s always been good with words. He’ll carve some time out of his morning and write it all down, rehearse exactly what he wants to say, and after work he’ll sit Stiles down and explain why Peter can’t knot him again, at least not yet, that there’s obviously a disparity in what Stiles can take and what Peter has to give, and that they need a plan. Maybe some sort of toy, to get Stiles ready properly.

At the thought of his omega stretched wide around a fat dildo, Peter’s cock throbs again.

Fuck.

* * *

Stiles watches Peter bolt for the bathroom and resists the urge to follow. There’s definitely been something screwy going on today. One minute it looked like Stiles’s plans were working, and the next Peter was snapping at him - he’s been running hot and cold all day, and Stiles feels like he has whiplash. When Peter let him drive and then fell asleep though, all thoughts of seducing him flew from Stiles’s head. Peter was obviously unwell, and Stiles can hear him even now, moaning through the bathroom door.

He doesn’t knock, doesn’t ask. Let him have his privacy.

He hears the shower start up, and the water runs for a long time before it shuts off. When Peter emerges he’s curled in on himself, shoulders hunched and head down, obviously still not well. Stiles can’t help himself and lays a hand against his forehead. “You’re running hot.”

Peter flinches at the touch, and Stiles tries not to take it personally.

“Do you need anything?” His alpha is sick, and Stiles needs to take care of him – it’s ingrained into his very DNA. “Cold pack? Aspirin? Grated apple?”

Peter’s head comes up at that and he gives Stiles an incredulous look. “Why on earth would I want a grated apple?”

“It’s good for gastro. It’s the pectin.”

Peter huffs out an unexpected laugh. “Of course you would know that.” He reaches out and lays a hand on Stiles’ arm. “It’s not gastro. Just my body reminding me that I can’t work all the hours under the sun and not pay the price.”

Stiles recalls all the late nights Peter had last week, plus the whole thing with Gerard last night, and then the drive today – no wonder Peter’s overtired. “I can make some dinner?” he offers.

Peter shakes his head. “I know it’s early, but I think I’ll turn in.” he turns his back on Stiles and heads towards the bedroom. Not even a goodnight kiss, Stiles notes.

* * *

When Stiles goes to bed hours later, Peter’s moaning and tossing in his sleep, Stiles’s pillow clutched to his chest in a death grip. Stiles frowns, feels Peter’s brow again. He’s warm, but not feverish - just restless.

Stiles debates for all of three seconds before deciding that the spare room is his best option with the way Peter’s thrashing about. He settles in (without his pillow, because although Stiles tried to get it back, Peter wasn’t giving it up) and thinks over the events of the weekend.

Peter’s definitely attracted to him. Undeniably, absolutely attracted. So that’s not the problem. He’s just not attracted enough to work past whatever bullshit is lodged in his brain from having super-traditional parents. He probably doesn’t want to force himself on Stiles, doesn’t want to be that guy – it certainly lines up with everything Stiles now knows about him, about his past.

Obviously, teasing and subtlety aren’t going to cut it. Stiles is going to have to be even more obvious about what he wants. He mulls it over and has a flash of recollection, back to when he was at Omega’s Secret. Towards the back, in a discreet corner, Stiles had seen something. He’d shied away, already overwhelmed, but his brain had chosen to hold those images. _Good job, brain_.

If Peter liked him in lingerie, he’ll love him in a corset.

He’ll go and see Jeremy tomorrow.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things come to a head.

Peter sleeps, but it’s fitful and filled with strange dreams that veer between terrifying and erotic.

He dreams that Stiles leaves him because he’s not a proper Alpha, announces he’s been to the doctor’s and had the series of shots that are the only way to sever a mating bond. In his dream, Stiles laughs at Peter, calls him a fool for thinking he’d ever be good enough.

He wakes with a start, heart pounding, panic flooding his veins, the only thing calming him the scent of his mate on the pillow he’s clutching to his chest. He breathes in deeply. _Just a dream_, he assures himself. _Just a dream_.

When he next falls asleep his brain goes in a completely different direction. This time Stiles is clutching at his clothing, begging Peter to breed him, _he needs it, Alpha,_ and Peter carries Stiles to bed and buries his head between his thighs and makes him come screaming Peter’s name with just his tongue, and then he stretches him open around his fingers before fucking into him hard, not stopping till his knot’s locked up tight inside and Stiles is gasping in pleasure. There’s no pain, only pleasure for both of them, and he slips out easily afterwards and Stiles tells him he’s his, always his, to take what he needs.

He moves in his sleep and is dragged awake by a warm wetness against his skin. He opens his eyes to see that he’s come all over himself. His knot’s still softening, and the sheets are sticky and soaked. Peter groans in dismay. He gets out of bed and changes the sheets, shoving the evidence of his crimes right down to the bottom of the laundry basket. He runs a hand through his hair and paces back and forth, not sure what to do. He’s almost afraid to go back to sleep, and although his instincts are calling for him to seek out Stiles and wrap him up tight in his arms, he doesn’t trust himself to do so.

In the end, he gets dressed and makes himself coffee. He knows he won’t get any more sleep, and it’s after four - that counts as morning in Peter’s book. He sits there, coffee cup clutched in his hands, staring at nothing. The dream where Stiles left him lingers at the edges of his consciousness, a warning that he can’t let things go on as they are. He’s certain Stiles is just as keen to get past this as he is – why else would he be trying so hard to tempt him? And it must be deliberate, Peter’s decided. Nobody’s that seductive by accident. And if Peter doesn’t respond, then what?

He can’t have his mate leave him after less than a month.

Tomorrow, he reminds himself. No - not tomorrow, today. Today they’ll talk. They’ll figure it out. He just has to get through the next twelve hours.

He must doze, because the next thing he knows there are birds chirping outside the window, daylight’s filtering into the room, and Stiles is swearing at the coffee machine. Peter stands, still only half awake, and shuffles over. He has a headache and his eyes feel like lead weights in his skull. “What did you do?”

Stiles looks over from where he’s muttering and his brows furrow. “Did you sleep out here?”

Peter’s prickly, defensive. “I didn’t mean to. And I didn’t know I needed your permission.”

Stiles holds both hands up in gesture of surrender. “Sorry for asking. And I can’t get the settings right on this stupid thing.”

“That stupid thing, as you call it, is state of the art.” Peter elbows Stiles aside, presses a few buttons, and nods. “Try now.”

Stiles looks skeptical, but when the machine behaves perfectly, he gives Peter a small smile. “Thanks. Sorry I screwed it up.” His hand darts out and he lays the back of his hand against Peter’s forehead, just for a second. Even that simple touch is enough to make Peter’s body hum with the need for more. “You feeling any better?” Stiles asks. He looks genuinely concerned.

Peter sighs. “Tired and out of sorts. Bad dreams, not enough sleep,” he admits.

“Maybe you should stay home? We could cuddle up together. I could give you a backrub.” Stiles smoothes a hand down the back of Peter’s neck, unknowingly making his blood boil.

_Yes. Yes, rub my back and my neck and my belly and my knot and we can spend the day locked together_, Peter wants to say. But he hasn’t prepared his notes, he won’t go into this conversation unprepared, he certainly won’t take Stiles back to bed without that conversation, and he knows himself well enough that being at home with Stiles will just distract him. “I can't, I have work to do. More coffee, a decent breakfast and I’ll be fine.” He pulls away from the touch in a desperate attempt at self-preservation, and pokes around in the fridge. It’s depressingly empty.

Peter makes a sad noise. “There’s nothing good,” he pouts.

Stiles looks over his shoulder. “Yoghurt?”

Peter shakes his head. He’s not really hungry anyway, and the yoghurt reminds him uncomfortably of the state of his sheets. He swings the door shut and straightens up, doing his best to ignore the press of Stiles’s body behind his, teasing and tantalizing. “Forget breakfast. I’m going to get ready and head in.”

Stiles bites his lip. “I can shop today, if you want? I don’t have much planned.”

Peter nods curtly and escapes to the bathroom. One cold shower and change of clothes later, and he’s out the door.

* * *

Stiles worries at his bottom lip as he pushes the cart around the grocery store. He shops on autopilot, with a vague thought of quick energy foods just in case his plan works. He loads in a whole box of protein bars, as well as lots of juice and sports drinks, not even sure why. But his brain is insisting, so he goes with it. By the time he’s stocked up on their regular food as well as all the extras, his cart is overflowing.

The checkout lady smiles knowingly. “That time, huh?”

Stiles’s brow wrinkles. “Pardon?”

The woman leans forward and says, “Heat,” tapping the box of protein bars. “My omega craves these.” Stiles stares at the box. He does too, he realizes. Last time round, he couldn’t get enough of them in the few days before his heat hit.

“No, no heat,” he says, but her comment gets him thinking as he does some mental calculations. It _would_ be just about that time, if he hadn’t had the shot. That might explain why he feels slightly off kilter. His nervous system just hasn’t quite gotten the memo yet. He drives home and unloads the jeep, still thinking as he does so. If he’s meant to be in heat, and he’s having the cravings he associates with heat, maybe that means his body will be more cooperative where Peter’s knot is concerned? Which means that really, there’s no better time for them to try again.

His plan is to get himself dressed up as sexily as he can manage, try and persuade Peter to knot him, and hope Peter doesn’t brush him off again. It all hinges on him wearing something sinful enough that just the sight of it will seduce Peter thoroughly. Stiles isn’t sure what he’ll do if Peter does reject him, though.

What if he presents his best self, and it’s still not enough?

He pushes the thought away. Fuck self-doubt. He’ll just have to make sure he’s irresistible.

* * *

He walks into Omega’s Secret with more confidence than he did last time, and finds Jeremy shelving stock. His face breaks into a smile. “Stiles! What can I help you with?”

“I need something that would make a blind man see God,” Stiles blurts out.

Jeremy’s eyebrows raise. “Oh?”

Stiles glances around to make sure nobody’s eavesdropping. “I want to seduce Peter,” he confesses in a hoarse whisper.

Jeremy gives him a knowing look. “Want to add a little spice? A touch of leather? Time to start being a little more adventurous than just the nightly knot?”

Stiles swallows. “Not exactly.”

He feels his cheeks heat, and Jeremy’s smile drops.

“Is everything all right between you two?” Stiles bites his lip and gives a tiny shake of his head. “Do you need to talk?” It’s the sympathetic tone that’s Stiles’s undoing. He nods dumbly, blinking back tears, and the next thing he knows Jeremy’s ushering him into the back room of the store with an arm around his shoulders and offering him a tissue.

Stiles dabs at his eyes feeling like a prize idiot, while Jeremy makes soothing noises and keeps a comforting arm draped around his shoulder. After a solid minute of silently crying, Stiles lifts his head to find Jeremy watching him, his gaze piercing. He steers Stiles to a small table and sits down opposite him. Finally, he speaks. “Tell me why you need to seduce your mate, Stiles.”

Stiles looks down, embarrassed and ashamed. He wishes he could curl up under the table, but that’s not going to help. “We- he-“ He risks a glance up to find Jeremy sitting there, expression patient. He wraps one of Stiles’s hands in his own, soothing, and that grants Stiles a measure of courage. “The sex, it wasn’t good on the claiming night. And we haven’t tried since.”

“Not good how?” Jeremy leans in closer. “Was it - could he not perform?”

Stiles chokes out a wet laugh at the absurdity of the question. “No. Quite the opposite, actually. He performed too well.” Jeremy makes a questioning noise, and Stiles presses on. “He’s too big. His knot, I mean.” He takes a deep breath. “It got stuck. It got stuck and it took forever to go down and he was bruised to hell and so was I and ever since he won’t do anything except hands and mouths and what if I’m just too tight down there and I want to try again so at least we’ll know except he won’t and I don’t want to ask because what if he says no?” It all comes tumbling out of his mouth at once, and Stiles feels like a weight’s been lifted off his shoulders just from the sheer relief of admitting just how bad it is aloud.

“Wait, you’re telling me that the problem is just that you and Peter got knot-locked?”

Stiles’s head whips up. “There’s a word for it?”

Jeremy shrugs. “Knot-lock’s not that uncommon in first-time mating. Too many nerves, too little experience, and suddenly everything tightens up. Nothing can get in or out.“ 

Stiles shakes his head. “Bullshit. I would have heard of it, if getting locked like that was a thing.” _Would you though?_ he asks himself, recalling the times his dad tried to bring up his claiming night and he brushed him off. A tiny seed of doubt appears. Maybe _this _was what he was trying to tell him about. And Jeremy isn't acting like what Stiles is telling him is uncommon.

Jeremy pats his hand. “It’s a thing Stiles, trust me.”

“So, what? I'm broken?” _Figures_, Stiles thinks bitterly. He sucks at every other part of being an omega.

But Jeremy’s mouth quirks up the slightest bit, and he shakes his head. “If you’re broken, so am I. When I mated, Deucalion locked me for four hours.”

Stiles’s eye widen. “_Four hours?_ Oh my god, how did you even survive?”

The quirk becomes a soft smile. “It actually wasn’t as bad as it sounds. It was a time just for us, I guess. And I have a very considerate mate, who made sure I was comfortable. Plus, we used plenty of Soft ‘n’ Slick just in case, so I wasn’t in any pain.”

“Plenty of what, now?” Stiles’s head is still spinning.

Jeremy sighs. “You didn’t see the cream I put in your bag when you got outfitted?”

Stiles frowns, tries to think. “Was it, like, a little white box?”

“That’s the one. I assumed you’d know what it was for. It’s basically ultra-slick, a knotting aid. It has a numbing agent and is extra greasy. It gives a helping hand, shall we say, with that first knotting. Takes the pain, reduces swelling, and even if you do lock it makes separating afterwards easier. Otherwise you’d be sore for days.”

Stiles recalls finding the box, what he thought it contained, and he can’t help it. He starts giggling. “What’s funny?” Jeremy asks. Stiles blushes, but he feels like it’s only fair to share the joke.

“I thought it was – I thought it was moisturizer. All it said was _silky smooth for your alpha, _so I tried it on my face.” He snorts, remembering. “I wondered why it was so oily!”

Jeremy tries to keep a straight face, Stiles can tell, but it’s a losing battle, and he lets out a loud, cackling laugh. Stiles isn’t even insulted. The relief at finding out he isn’t broken after all far outweighs the embarrassment of making such a fundamental mistake. He flaps a hand at Jeremy, still snickering. “In my defense, its packaging is incredibly vague!”

Jeremy manages to stop laughing long enough to argue, “It’s discreet, not vague. And everyone knows what it’s for, even if nobody talks about it.”

“I didn’t,” Stiles points out.

“How could you not know? Did they not cover it in health class?”

Stiles sighs ruefully, his laughter trailing off. “I kinda skipped those. Figured slot A goes into tab B, what else is there?” He’s still wrapping his head around the news that he might just be normal after all.

They’re interrupted by a soft tap at the door, and the store manager pokes her head in. “Everything all right, Jeremy?”

“Everything’s fine thanks. Have you met Stiles, the mayor’s new mate? He needs some advice, and I thought a little discretion might be in order.” Jeremy’s eyebrows do a complicated dance, and the woman seems to understand perfectly.

“Take as long as you need. I’ll make sure you’re not disturbed.” She closes the door with a firm click.

Jeremy turns back to Stiles, a glint in his eye. “Right. Here’s what we’re going to do. First, I’m going to cover the basics that you might have missed in health class. Then, I’m going to fill you in on all the things they _don’t_ tell you in health class, the things that make the difference between good sex and great sex. And after that, we’re going to find something for you to wear that would make a blind man see God.”

Stiles can’t help the blush that climbs in his cheeks. “I’m not good at talking about sex.”

Jeremy goes to the little fridge and grabs them both a can of soda, grinning. “That’s fine. Because I'm _great_ at talking about sex. All you have to do is listen and learn.”

And Stiles, he thinks he can do that.

* * *

When Stiles leaves two hours later, it’s with a head full of knowledge, a bag full of corsetry, and a spring in his step. Suddenly so many things make sense now, and the deep-seated worry he’d been carrying about being defective has all but fled. He’s a lot more confident now that there won’t be a repeat of his claiming night, especially after Jeremy had dragged out a bag of sample packs of various knot balms, tipping them on the table. “See if you can guess which ones are marketed at alphas and which ones at omegas,” he’d commented dryly.

Stiles had laughed way too hard at some of the names, but he could see what Jeremy meant. The ones aimed at omegas?

_Tender Moments. Easy daze. Soft n Slick. First time Friend. O’s little helper. Gentle delights. Balm of Eden. Sensual soother. Slipitin_

All soft, reassuring names. _Don’t worry,_ they say, and inspire visions of rose petals and candlelight, whispered declarations of devotion as the delicate omega is gentled through their mating by a sensitive, caring mate.

The Alpha balms though?

_Wet n wild. Ride em cowboy. Grease monkey. Ride’n’Slide. Knots a’Apoppin’. Ultraknot extreme_. And of course, Stiles’s personal favorite, the one that made him burst out laughing, _Sir Knotsalot -_ complete with the slogan, ‘I like big knots and I cannot lie.’

All screaming, _I am Alpha, hear me roar._

“Wow,” Stiles had snorted. “I wish I was surprised.”

Jeremy had smirked and proceeded to load him up with freebies. “I know it’s not your first time, but use it anyway because honestly? This stuff is just fun. Get your hands wet and rub it everywhere. Peter will go wild. I’m giving you the ones with no numbing agent because believe me, you’re gonna want to feel _everything.” _ Then he’d fixed Stiles with a stern stare – well, as stern as an actual ray of sunshine could manage. “And Stiles? Hints aren’t working. Just ask him. How does he know what you want, otherwise?”

Stiles had nodded, seeing the truth of it.

Then they’d gone shopping. “You work on commission, right?” Stiles had asked with a wink. At Jeremy’s answering nod, he’d smirked, and proceeded to go wild. He has more panties than he could possibly wear, plus a few specialized items. He didn’t even flinch at the five-hundred-dollar total, told himself it’d be worth it to see Peter’s face.

As he drives home he debates calling Peter, telling him what he’s found out, but in the end he decides against it. This needs to be a face to face conversation – preferably one had while Stiles is wrapped in his new black leather corset.

* * *

Peter stares at the document in his hands, unseeing. Something about parking in the business district, he doesn’t know. Surely he has minions to take care of this? He drops it on his desk with a sigh, running a hand over his face. He can’t concentrate, mind caught in an endless loop of _Stiles, talk to Stiles, mate Stiles, knot Stiles, _and it’s making him useless for anything else.

He’s already upset his receptionist. She asked him a perfectly reasonable question and Peter had practically ripped her head off, snapping that_ 'surely you’re not so incompetent that you need to come running to me for every little thing? And if you are, why do I even keep you around?_ _'_ Her face had crumpled and he’d immediately apologized, but the tight smile and stiff nod he got in return told him only too clearly that he was out of line, and not yet forgiven. Peter freely admits he’s not the easiest man to work for, but that was extreme, even for him.

Maybe he should write down what he wants to say to Stiles, get it out of his system. It might calm him down enough that he can behave like a reasonable human being.

Comforted by the thought, he gives instructions that he’s not to be disturbed, closes his office door, and pulls out a sheet of paper. He starts to write down all the things he wants to say. He lets the words flow onto the page, messy and unstructured, a mixture of bullet points and half formed sentences, all variations on the same thing – _Don’t leave me. Give me another chance. I’m afraid of hurting you. I need you._

He’s been working on his notes for an hour, so absorbed in his scribbling that he doesn’t hear the door to his office open. It’s not until a throat clears that he looks up to find Deucalion in front of him, giving him an arch look that Peter knows only too well. It normally means he’s about to get called out on his bullshit, something he both loathes and appreciates.

Deucalion sits on the edge of Peter’s desk, right in his personal space. Peter’s oh, so tempted to shove him off the edge, but instead he sits back, arms folded over his chest. “Interesting. I thought I said I wasn’t to be disturbed, but apparently that doesn’t apply to you.”

Deucalion gives a lazy shrug. “Any reason that when Sharon called to cancel our meeting she told me I was lucky, because you’re as cranky as a bag of weasels this morning?”

“I’m just tired,” Peter mutters. “I apologized.”

Deuc gives a noncommittal hum, then just sits in silence, annoyingly _there_. Just when Peter’s starting to reconsider pushing him off the desk, he speaks. “Everything all right with your mate?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but it’s fine.” Peter practically snarls out his reply.

“I only ask because from what I can see,” Deuc nods towards the scattered pages, “There might be trouble in paradise. You only make notes like this when you’re stressed about something.”

Peter sweeps up the papers with one arm, but he knows it’s too late to hide them. “Nosy bastard.”

Deuc plops down into the chair opposite Peter and leans back, legs stretched and ankles crossed. “Tell me what it is,” he demands, and this, this is why Peter hates him. He’s the worst kind of inconvenient friend, one who knows exactly when to push and prod. A necessary evil.

“We’re still adjusting, that’s all. A few teething problems.” There, he thinks. That’s enough information.

Deuc apparently doesn’t agree, picking up Peter’s notes and rifling through them. He reads for a moment, then looks pointedly at Peter over the top of the page. “What is this exactly, Peter?”

“Just some notes. We need to talk, and I wanted to be prepared.”

Deuc lets the silence stretch out, reading further, and his eyebrows raise. “Peter, these aren’t notes. I’m not sure what I’d call them.”

Peter huffs, offended. “If I wanted your input, I’d ask.”

Deuc leans forward, holding the papers out. “I’m serious. Read them again.”

Peter snatches the papers back, even more offended now. “They’re just a rough dra –“ his words trail off as he looks at the papers.

_Stiles stiles STILES stiles mate mate mine Stiles STILES want want mine need fuck hard knot Stiles mine mate fuck knot _is scrawled across the page, line after line of gibberish. It’s nothing like what he thought he’d written.

Peter drops his head onto his desk. “Fuck.”

He hears a low chuckle.

“What?” he snaps out. He’s out of control, and nothing about that is even remotely funny. 

“Let me guess. You’re out of sorts, can’t focus, can only think about your mate. Everything he does at the moment makes you want him, and you don’t know why?”

Peter groans. “Something’s wrong with me.”

He looks up to find an amused smile on Deucalion’s face. “There’s nothing wrong with you. You’ve never been in rut before, have you?”

Peter gapes at him. “I’m not in rut!”

“Not yet my friend, but you’re on the verge. If Stiles is close to heat, it’s not surprising.”

“But – the shots, he doesn’t have heats.” Peter protests.

Deuc gives another chuckle. He’s enjoying himself far too much, the bastard. “As Jeremy and I discovered when he had the shots, even if he doesn’t have his heat, he’ll still give off the chemosignals. Your body’s just responding to what it perceives as his need. Has Stiles been particularly…greedy lately?”

Peter closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, thinks about Stiles’s behavior over the weekend. “Yes,” he admits grudgingly. “It’s like it’s his mission to tempt me into bed, and he nearly succeeded.”

Deuc’s smile drops at that. “Nearly? Peter, you’ve only been mated weeks, You two should still be, what’s the phrase? _Fucking like bunnies._ What’s going on?”

Peter’s stomach drops. He hadn’t meant to reveal that part, but now that he has, he knows Deuc won’t let it go. “The claiming was…” he settles on, “intense.”

“As first claims are. Why is that a problem?”

Peter’s suddenly reminded that Deuc is devoted to his mate, that he’s a good man, and that he’s probably the only person Peter can trust with this. He takes a deep breath and blurts out, “You don’t understand. There was a mishap. I hurt him. I haven’t - we haven’t- since that first time. I’m more than he can take, and I don’t know what to do about it.”

Deuc’s face does something complicated at that, like he’s fighting a smile. “Peter Hale, are you telling me that your knot got stuck?”

Peter refuses to catch Deuc’s eye. “For almost an hour.”

Deuc leans back in his chair and bursts out laughing.

“It’s not funny!” Peter hisses. “How can I possibly have sex with him if that’s going to happen?”

Deuc is still smirking. “After I claimed Jeremy I had to sit with a bag of frozen peas in my lap for a week. But it was one time. And it was worth it.”

That gives Peter pause. “One time?”

Deucalion lets out a sigh, and addresses Peter as one would a small child. It would be insulting if it wasn’t so reassuring. “It often happens the first time, but it only happens the first time.”

Peter allows himself a glimmer of hope. “You’re sure?”

Deuc shakes his head. “You, my friend, are an idiot. Cast your mind back to Alpha Ed at school. You should know this. It’s normal.”

“I didn’t pay attention,” Peter admits. “I never intended to mate. But then, Stiles.” He’s finding it harder and harder to concentrate, mind swimming with images of Stiles, smiling and laughing, the way he sways his hips as he walks, how he'd look naked and begging beneath him.

There’s gentle tap on his shoulder and Peter realizes with a start that he’s been staring into space, and apparently he’s still chanting Stiles’s name.

Deucalion rolls his eyes. “There’s no point talking to you right now, is there? You’re almost gone. I’m taking you home, and when you get there, you had better get down on your knees and beg your mate’s forgiveness for your idiocy. And then take him to bed and give him what he’s asking for, for god’s sake.”

Deucalion stands, walks around to Peter’s side of the desk, and drags him firmly out of his chair by his collar. Peter’s too flummoxed to resist. Deuc leads him out, stopping briefly at Sharon’s desk to tell her Peter’s out of commission until further notice, and her eyes light up with understanding. Peter follows dumbly along, only balking when Deuc walks past Peter’s car and over to his own. Deuc gives his collar a tug. “No. You’re not fit to drive.”

Peter would argue, but his mind is fixed on his mate, and now that he’s freed from the fear of doing harm, the need he’s been trying to suppress is pushing through and taking over, making words hard. Instead he lets himself be pressed into the passengers’ seat, and breathes out, “Drive fast?”

Deuc just shakes his head fondly, and without another word takes off at speed.

Maybe he’s not the worst kind of friend, after all.

* * *

Peter arrives home to see that the jeep’s gone. He jams his key into the lock, scrambling to get the door open, calling out, _“Stiles? Stiles?”_ in desperation, even though he knows the house is empty. He paces back and forth for a minute and is just pulling his phone out when he hears the jeep pull up. The door opens and there’s his mate, his Stiles, arms full of bags from Omega’s Secret. Stiles stares for a second and then his mouth is moving, talking a mile a minute. “Why are you home? It doesn’t matter, thank god you’re home. You’re not gonna _believe _what I found out. We’re idiots, both of us. The thing that happened with your knot? It’s a one-time thing. Plus I got us this –“ He’s cut off as Peter surges forward, pressing Stiles up against the door, catching him in a hard, bruising kiss. The bags fall to the floor as Stiles drops them in his haste to wrap his arms around Peter and kiss him back. Peter’s breathless when he pulls back, want coursing through him.

Stiles sounds just as breathless when he says, “I want you to knot me.” 

_“Yes.”_ Peter buries his face in the crook of Stiles’s neck.

“Because there’s a cream, we won’t get stuck, that was a one off, and god, I was gonna get dressed up in a corset and seduce you but –“ Stiles breaks off, pulling back and lifting Peter’s chin. “Wait, yes?”

Peter grins, and it’s a hungry, feral thing. “Yes. Need.”

Stiles blinks slowly, tilting his head, observing. Peter’s hands rove over his body, unable to stop, rucking up his shirt, and Stiles stills abruptly at the warm palm on his abs. He asks slowly, “Peter, are you – are you in rut? Is that why you’re home?” Peter nods, still grinning. Stiles’s face breaks into a dazzling smile, and he pulls Peter closer. “Really? Does that mean you’re going to fuck me now?”

Peter can’t hold back any more. He picks Stiles up and carries him towards the bedroom, still nuzzling at his throat, barely able to growl out a single word.

_“Yes.”_

* * *

Peter whines when he plops Stiles in the middle of the bed and Stiles scrambles off, but Stiles holds up a reassuring hand. “Just locking the door, getting some water, I promise. I’ll just be a minute.”

It doesn’t _feel_ like a minute, it feels like an eternity, and Peter huffs and sulks even as he strips his clothes off, leaving them strewn across the bedroom floor. His cock’s hard and throbbing, his heartbeat echoed in the pulsing rhythm, and he wraps a hand around it, closing his eyes in relief. He feels like he’s had three or four too many cocktails, and his inhibitions, his restraint, have just floated away, but he’s not completely mindless. He’s aware when Stiles comes back into the room carrying water bottles and one of the bags from the store, understands when he tells Peter that he’s texted his dad and turned their phones off so they won’t be disturbed. Peter nods his approval even as his mouth struggles to make a sentence. “Good. Mine now?”

“All yours, Alpha.” From the amusement in his voice, Stiles might be teasing him right now. Peter doesn’t care. He steps forward and grasps the front of Stiles’s shirt, dragging him towards the bed. Stiles goes eagerly, stopping only to snag something out of the bag before catching Peter’s mouth in a kiss. He tastes so good, so perfect, and Peter needs to be inside him. He slides his hand back under Stiles’s shirt and shucks it off over his head, hands exploring all that soft, warm flesh as he does so, and then Stiles is unbuttoning his skinny jeans and writhing on the bed obscenely as he attempts to get out of them. Peter helps by tugging the legs down, gratified to find that Stiles is hard. Peter ducks his head and takes him in his mouth without bothering to ask permission, but the hissed-out ‘_Yesss’_ he gets tells him it’s fine, as do Stiles’s hands in his hair, holding him in place.

Peter luxuriates in the scent of arousal and the tang of sweat, salty against his tongue. It soothes him, knowing he’s going to get what he needs, and he revels in the gasps and cries he pulls out of Stiles. It’s barely a minute before Stiles is arching up and coming in his mouth and after, Peter pulls off and licks his lips. _Get him wet, get him open,_ his brain chants in an endless loop, and Peter can’t do anything except obey the primal drive. He moves his mouth lower, flicking the very tip of his tongue across Stiles’s clit and making his hips buck up. Stiles is already wet and Peter grins, pleased at the discovery. He mouths against the skin, soft wet kisses, before slipping a finger inside and earning a deep groan. “Hot little cunt,” he breathes, and Stiles lets out a needy whimper. “Fill, you, knot you, breed you.” It seems the only words he can form right now are filth.

“Please.” It comes out as a soft sigh.

It’s enough to make his blood boil, but he knows dimly that no, not yet. Not slick enough, not open enough. He adds a second finger, settles into a rhythm of working them in and out as Stiles gets steadily slicker and the muscles soften and relax. Peter’s knows he’s nearly there, nearly ready, but Stiles is tapping urgently on his shoulder. Peter growls at the distraction, but Stiles tugs on his hair, pulling his head up so their eyes meet. He’s clutching something in his other hand, a tube.

“Let me - roll over, Alpha. I want to slick you up. It’ll make it better.”

Peter hesitates, unwilling to be diverted from his goal, but then Stiles whispers, “You be able to go _so deep_, Alpha. Your knot will slide all the way in.”

Peter pauses, considers it. _All the way in. _Yes, his hindbrain decides for him, and he flops onto his back. Stiles follows him, already squeezing something into his palm and wrapping it around Peter’s length, and oh, it’s silky smooth and cool against his overheated skin, and Peter lets out a sigh of sheer pleasure. “More,” he demands, voice rough.

There’s a squelching sound and then there are two hands, one stroking his dick with long, firm movements, and the other slathering his balls in lotion, making them pull and tighten dangerously. Before Peter’s even aware of what he’s planning he’s flipped them so his mate’s beneath him, right where he should be. Peter’s dick is drooling, caught between them and rubbing against soft belly flesh. It’s tantalizing, not nearly enough, and Peter rolls his hips, chasing more. Stiles lets out a gasp and Peter’s eyes snap to his face, searching for any sign of distress, but he finds nothing but arousal there. Peter stares down at Stiles as if seeing him for the first time, notes the color high in his cheeks, the kiss-plush lips, the mischievous smile, and he can’t, he can’t wait any longer. Stiles must sense what he’s feeling, because he nods and whispers, “I’m ready.”

Peter takes the time to lean down and kiss Stiles tenderly before he reaches down and lines up, pressing in. Stiles’s breath hitches as he spreads his legs wide and rocks his hips up, forcing Peter in deeper. Peter sinks in with a gasp, pausing just for a second to soak up the sensation, but then Stiles is murmuring in his ear, “So good, Peter. Fuck me now?” and his alpha side surges to the fore, takes over.

He pulls back and then his hips snap forward. Stiles keens, head thrown back, and at the sight of him Peter’s lost. He fucks him hard and fast, merciless, not stopping or slowing through the breathless pleas of _more, harder,_ not when Stiles shudders and shakes his way through not one, but two orgasms and turns into a boneless heap beneath him, not even when his knot starts to thicken and swell. He keeps going, lost in sensation as he approaches his peak, consumed by a burning need to mount, to claim, to mark. He ducks his head, laps and bites at Stiles’s scent gland, catches a fresh burst of arousal from his mate, and it’s that, the confirmation that his omega’s satisfied, that carries him over the edge. His muscles tense, and he slams in deep as he comes, knot locked up tight in a single thrust. Peter can feel his release pumping deep into Stiles body, and his alpha instincts wallow in triumph even as his body thrums with the thrill of a successful mating.

Peter slumps forward with barely enough presence of mind to catch his weight on his elbows, distracted by the way Stiles sweet little cunt is squeezing around him rhythmically, milking his knot. Stiles has a sleepy smile on his face, and Peter places a soft peck on his forehead, his driving, mindless lust replaced with affection, at least for now. Brown eyes flutter open, glazed and sex-drunk. Peter’s arms are already aching under the strain of holding himself up, so he whispers, “Going to roll us, sweet boy. Hold tight.” Stiles nods, and Peter manoeuvres them so that Stiles is sprawled against his chest and Peter’s laying underneath. Stiles gives a satisfied hum and nuzzles in, loose-limbed and heavy, a comforting weight.

Peter’s brain is still focused on pleasure, and his hands smooth down Stiles’s back in long strokes, his fingertips tracing the pert swell of his delicious ass. “My lovely boy,” he murmurs. “Such pretty skin. Soft and perfect.” Stiles makes a sound that’s something like agreement. Peter mentally welcomes back the ability to form a sentence, and then lays there and happily traces patterns across Stiles’s back and ass back with a fingertip while they wait for his knot to go down.

And go down it does.

After fifteen minutes or so Peter feels it deflating, and he nudges at Stiles, who’s halfway asleep. “Sweetheart? I think we can move.”

Stiles raises his head and blinks, slothlike, before rolling his hips experimentally. “Huh.” He lifts himself up and off, and Peter doesn’t imagine the slight sigh of relief. Stiles flops onto his back, one arm cast over his eyes, stretched out long and lean and tempting. Peter’ cock twitches, thickens.

He wants - no,_ needs._

But he’s always prided himself on his control, so he manages to wait a whole ten minutes, letting his mate nap, before the sight of Stiles sprawled like a feast before him is too much, and he nudges at him. “Sweetheart…”

Stiles moves his arm, opens one eye. He takes in Peter’s rapidly hardening cock. “Already?”

Peter leans in for a kiss, grinding against Stiles’s hip. He’d feel bad, if he weren’t so distracted by his rapidly growing need. “S’rut. Can’t help it,” he murmurs, taking the time to pull at plump, rosy nipples with his fingertips, teasing, watching in fascination as they tighten in response. Stiles makes a pleased sound and arches his back so his chest presses forward, so Peter does it again. “Need more of that – “ Peter waves his hand vaguely, knowing what he wants but unable to speak, brain already sinking into a fog of desire.

Stiles seems to understand though, wiggles out of his grasp just long enough to roll over, reaching down to beside the bed and coming back with a pump bottle. “Knot balm.”

“Good,” Peter grunts out, and promptly fastens his mouth onto a nipple, earning some utterly debauched squirming and a breathless squeak. It’s an addictive sound, and he wants to hear more just like it, but he pauses while he’s still able, just barely, to ask. “I can? Again?”

There’s no mistaking the arousal in Stiles’s voice. “I’ll take whatever you want to give me.”

Peter grins, and goes back to what he was doing. That sounds an awful lot like carte blanche to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had far too much fun making up the names for Knot Balm, not gonna lie.
> 
> ETA: For all the commenters concerned that they haven't 'talked'- They'll get there! They're just a lil too...busy right now. Peter can't quite word, so he's letting his body do the talking. And Stiles is getting the message loud and clear (and repeatedly.)


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there's sex and talking, in that order.

Stiles lets out a groan as Peter hitches his leg forward and enters him from behind. Peter’s plastered against his back and he sinks into him, slowly this time. “How are you even awake?” Stiles slurs out.

“Mhmm. Slept. Want you.” Peter’s grinding into him with a slow, lazy rolling motion that makes Stiles’s toes curl with just how good it is. He doesn’t move, just lets himself be fucked. He thought maybe he’d be sore by now, but there’s just a low throb, a feeling of being well-used that’s satisfying on a base level. He's going to leave Sir Knotsalot a five star review, he thinks sleepily. That stuff's amazing.

“You always want me.” He stifles a yawn.

“Yes,” Peter agrees, kissing up the back of his neck. Stiles has lost count of the number of times they’ve done this over the last twenty-four hours, gave up counting sometime around the sixth (seventh?) time Peter nipped and nuzzled at his throat and asked, “Again?”

Stiles said yes, of course. He’ll always say yes. He thinks he might be addicted to the feeling, the stretch of Peter filling him. He certainly doesn’t want it to end anytime soon.

But.

“After this, we need to get up. I’ll change the bed, and you need a shower.”

“No. Stay here. In you,” Peter grumbles, hips rolling, arms tangled around Stiles.

“Yes, I know. I said _after_.” It’s not that he doesn’t love the pheromones that are rolling off Peter right now, thick and rich and soothing, but they’re a mess. Apart from anything else, they’re both tacky with half-dried come and knot balm. The bedroom smells like it belongs to a horny fifteen-year-old, and Stiles has standards, even if Peter apparently doesn’t.

He’s drawn from his thoughts by Peter nipping at his earlobe with his teeth and tugging at his hips, shuffling them around. Stiles lets himself be moved like a rag doll and ends up sprawled belly first on the bed with Peter still plastered along his back, one hand holding Stiles’s wrists above his head as he rocks in and out. Stiles splays his legs out wide and Peter grunts out his approval as he picks up speed. Stiles’s cock is limp and spent, but the muscles in his cunt continue to throb and clench around Peter every time they do this, seemingly insatiable. Peter lets out a moan and shoves forward once, twice, his knot slipping into place as they lock yet again, and the feel of it stretching him out and rubbing against all the right spots has Stiles fluttering through another orgasm.

He sighs happily, and Peter rolls them back onto their sides with a contented hum. He’ll start sweet-talking Stiles any minute now. Stiles thinks maybe it’s his favorite part of this. Peter’s short on words when the rut rolls over him like a wave, but he makes his desires known just fine, and afterwards, when they’re locked together, he comes back to himself and murmurs sweet nothings and affectionate praise against Stiles’s skin, and Stiles soaks the approval up, hoards the words like treasure.

His alpha’s happy. It makes his omega instincts swell with pride, and Stiles lets himself enjoy it. Why shouldn’t he? It’s part of who he is.

With Peter still firmly locked inside him, he drifts back to sleep to the feel of Peter kissing his shoulder and the sounds of his velvet voice telling him he’s perfect and wonderful and that Peter’s so, so lucky.

He thinks he might be the lucky one.

* * *

“Up.”

“No.” Peter’s brow furrows with determination and Stiles sighs.

“Peter, you need to shower. Get up.” 

Peter clutches the blankets tightly with one hand and makes grabbing motions at Stiles with the other. “Come back?” It’s not quite a whine, but it’s awfully close.

Stiles shakes his head and slides out of bed completely, earning him a betrayed look. He could swear Peter’s bottom lip starts wobbling. It’s almost adorable, but it also tells Stiles he needs to change his approach. This isn’t Peter Hale, smart, in-control mayor of Beacon Hills. This is Peter Hale, sex-drunk, rut- addled cock-zombie_. That_ Peter Hale will need some persuading. “A lovely hot shower to soothe your sore muscles, won’t that be nice?” he cajoles. “We’ll you all cleaned up and fresh, and I’ll change the bed and get you something to eat. Something decent,” he amends, as he takes in the pile of crumpled protein bar wrappers.

Peter discovered them while Stiles was sleeping and woke Stiles to try and shove a still-wrapped bar clumsily between his teeth while he insisted, “Eat, now.” Despite being too tired to be hungry, Stiles took it as the caretaking it was, and dutifully ate his bar while Peter single-handedly worked his way through the rest of the box.

Peter doesn’t look sold on the idea of leaving the bed again though, so Stiles pulls out the big guns. He widens his eyes and leans in to cup the side of Peter’s face with his hand. “Please, Alpha? Shower with me? I might need help standing under the water.”

Peter’s instantly alert at that. “You need me?” Stiles smirks to himself – he knew Peter’s protective instincts would come in useful. He gives Peter a grateful smile and pulls the blankets back. The thought he’s helping motivates Peter to get out of bed and he follows Stiles into the bathroom with a hand in the small of his back, gently steering him. Stiles is overcome by a wave of affection at the simple gesture.

Stiles gets the water running and shuffle-shoves Peter under it, crowding against his back and grabbing the shampoo, then tilting Peter’s head back to wash his hair while Peter stands under the hot water letting out what can only be called a purr. “You like that, huh? I told you it would feel good getting clean.“ Stiles works his fingers through Peter’s thick curls and massages his scalp gently, and Peter leans back against him, a blissed out expression on his face. Once his hair’s clean and rinsed, Stiles lathers up the washcloth and takes Peter’s hand, pressing the washcloth into it. “OK big guy, time to wash.”

Peter looks at the cloth, then at Stiles, then at the cloth. “I could wash you?” His expression is hopeful, and the refusal dies on Stiles’s lips.

“You wash _you_ first. Then, we’ll see.”

Peter nuzzles up close, heedless of the water pouring over them. “Pretty,” he sighs. ”Want to touch you.” And how, exactly, is Stiles supposed to say no to that? To his credit, he does his best.

He presses a finger to the centre of Peter’s chest and pushes him back lightly, managing to put a couple of inches between them. “Get clean, and you can wash me.”

Peter lets out a huff, but proceeds to wash himself quickly and efficiently, before turning to Stiles with a hungry look. “Now you?” Stiles laughs softly at his mate and nods his agreement. He wonders if people would believe him if he told them that no-nonsense Peter Hale turns into a big soft idiot when he’s in rut? Probably not. It’s not like he’s going to tell anyone anyway. This is just for them.

Peter lathers up the cloth and starts to wash Stiles. He’s slow and careful, one big hand wrapped around Stiles’s hip to hold him in place as Peter works his way down, peppering kisses in the wake of the washcloth. Stiles is still a mess, but Peter doesn’t seem to mind, soaping up Stiles’s belly and cock with something like reverence. He gets down on his knees to wash between Stiles’s legs, his hands gentle as he cleans off the slick, come, and knot balm while Stiles steadies himself with one hand on Peter's shoulder. Peter rinses the last of it away and then drops the cloth, sliding one hand between Stiles’s legs, a fingertip tracing his opening. “Can I?”

The sight of Peter on his knees, gazing up with an expression that’s nothing short of adoring while he asks permission to - well, Stiles isn’t sure what he’s asking for exactly – is one of the hottest things Stiles has ever seen, and he almost says yes just to find out what Peter will do, but then his foot slips just the tiniest bit on the tiles and he has to clutch tightly to Peter’s shoulder, and that’s enough to have him shaking his head. “No, Peter. It’s too slippery in here.”

“Make _you _slippery,” Peter says with a sly smile, and gods, he would too, Stiles can tell. Peter would press him against the wall and eat him out in the shower without a second thought.

_Focus,_ he chides himself. He crouches down so he’s at eye level with Peter. “Once we’re dry and you’ve eaten something, I promise you can do whatever you want.”

“Bossy,” Peter grumbles, but he stands, pulling Stiles up with him, and turns the water off.

They get out and get dry, and Stiles lets Peter press kisses along his collarbones, over the lovebites he’s left scattered. Peter stops long enough to lean in so their foreheads are pressed together, hands circling Stiles’s back and tracing over the muscles there as he sighs contentedly.

Stiles suspects they could stay here all day, but the water’s starting to run cool. “Come on, you. Food.”

“And then bed?” The hands on his back sneak lower, pulling Stiles in tight, and he can feel Peter’s cock starting to thicken through the towel that’s wrapped around his waist.

Stiles rolls his eyes, but it’s fond. “And then bed.”

* * *

Peter works his way through a pile of scrambled eggs and a stack of toast, barely stopping for breath, and once Stiles has finished his own meal he takes the chance while Peter’s still eating to change the sheets, because he knows Peter will hold him to his promise.

Sure enough, he’s barely finished smoothing out the quilt when arms wrap around him from behind and there’s a voice in his ear purring, “Bed?”

Stiles leans back into the touch. “Yes please.”

* * *

The next few days are a blur, more of the same. Peter will get hit by a wave of rut and fuck Stiles senseless, they’ll both pass out for a while, then Stiles will cajole Peter to wash and eat and rest, followed by more mindblowing sex. Stiles is intensely grateful to past him for following his gut and stocking up on easy snacks and sports drinks, because he honestly doesn’t have the energy to cook anything too complex, but Peter happily munches his way through packets of cheese and crackers, dried fruit, and trail mix, and guzzles down the Gatorade two bottles at a time.

It’s early Thursday morning, after a particularly intense knotting, that Stiles wakes from his orgasm induced nap to find Peter gazing at him intently, his eyes holding an awareness that’s been distinctly lacking over the last few days, and Stiles knows it’s over._“Stiles.”_ His name is spoken as a sigh, a prayer. He smiles and reaches out to trace a finger down Peter’s cheek, and Peter’s eyes flutter closed for just a second under his touch.

Stiles props himself up on his elbows and leans over to steal a kiss. Peter kisses him back, but it’s missing the desperate edge of the last few days, and when they part Stiles murmurs, “Hey. Welcome back.” Peter stretches and gives him a slow, lazy smile in reply. “You’re still not all there, are you?” Stiles asks, amused, and Peter shakes his head.

“Tired. Need to sleep.”

Stiles laughs softly. “I’m not surprised. Snuggle up.”

Peter hums his agreement and octopuses himself around Stiles’s back, and Stiles notes that even when their bodies press up close Peter’s cock doesn’t give so much as a twitch. He relaxes into the warmth of the embrace. He’s tired, every muscle aches, his cunt throbs with overuse, and he feels like he could sleep for a week.

It’s perfect.

* * *

It’s dark when Peter wakes, and he has no idea what time or even what day it is. He just knows that his head’s clear and his cock’s soft for the first time in days. His whole body aches, but it’s in a way that speaks of satisfaction.

_Rut._

He wasn’t prepared for it, didn’t expect the urgency of want. How many times did they make love? He has no idea, the past few days a string of jumbled-together flashes of sex and Stiles and skin and want.

He licks at his lips, finds them dry. He’s thirsty. He gets up and pads naked to the kitchen to get a drink. He’s clean, he notes vaguely, and it comes back to him then, Stiles cajoling him into the shower, feeding him, taking care of him. He sighs. They never did talk, after all, and now Stiles has had to cope with a heat-drunk Alpha for days. Peter groans when he recalls how needy he’d been, how insistent. True, Stiles had given permission every step of the way, but Peter’s still vaguely embarrassed when he remembers the way he’d been reduced to one-word-sentences, to begging for sex at every turn.

He’ll have to apologize and hope he didn’t do anything too unforgivable while under the haze of his rut. He doesn’t think he did, but he can’t be sure. He’s standing, glass in hand, drink forgotten as he tries to remember, when arms encircle him and a head lays on his shoulder. “You back with me?” Stiles mumbles, and Peter nods. Stiles’s skin is warm against him, but it doesn’t fill Peter with want the way it did. Now it’s just comforting.

He takes a drink, sets his glass down, and peels Stiles’s arms away, but only so he can turn and face him. “Sweetheart, I’m so, so sorr- “

A hand flies out and slaps firmly over his mouth. “No. No apologizing. There’s nothing to be sorry for.” Peter wants to protest, but when he looks at Stiles, he sees there’s no regret, no fear. There’s just Stiles grinning, and he looks the tiniest bit smug, if Peter’s honest. Stiles takes his hand away from Peter’s mouth and replaces it with his lips, kissing Peter softly, slowly. Peter closes his eyes and loses himself in it, in a kiss that’s going nowhere, a kiss driven by affection, not biology. They’re interrupted by his stomach growling, and Stiles pulls away. “I’m going to make breakfast. Dinner. What time is it even?”

Peter shrugs, lost. “What time? What _day_ is it? Tuesday?”

Stiles snorts again. “Try Thursday.”

No. That can’t be right. The last thing Peter remembers with any sort of clarity is Deucalion sending him home, and that was Monday. It’s not possible he’s lost three days. But the corner of Stiles’s mouth is quirked up in a way that suggests that yes, he has. “How much do you remember?” Stiles asks.

Peter gives a tiny shake of his head. “You. I just remember you. Wanting you, having you.”

Stiles sighs happily. “Yeah. It was pretty great.”

Peter has to ask. “I didn’t – I didn’t force you into anything?”

“Never. Even when you lost most of your words, you checked in. I said yes to it all.”

“Promise?” It’s suddenly desperately important that Stiles is telling the truth.

Stiles’s expression softens with understanding. “I promise. You weren’t that guy. And for the record? You were adorable while you were rut-drunk. Couldn’t string two words together, but cute as fuck. And the sex was spec-fucking-tacular and I hope we have a lot more of it.”

Something settles inside Peter. He didn’t fuck this up. “Oh? More, you say?” He keeps his tone light, playful.

“Many different times, in many different positions,” Stiles agrees, grinning.

Peter basks in the relief rolling over him, and they stand there holding each other until his stomach growls again, more insistently, and Stiles pulls away to find something for him to eat. “You’ve been living off snacks, pudding cups, and these,” Stiles tells him, tossing Peter a stray protein bar.

Peter opens the bar, takes a bite, and pulls a face. “This is awful. Are you sure I ate these?” He can’t imagine why he’d willingly put this in his mouth – it tastes like chalk.

Stiles nods. “You ate a whole box in one sitting.”

Peter wrinkles his nose. “Obviously, I was unhinged.”

Stiles just laughs. “Kinda, yeah.”

* * *

Peter eats the frozen lasagna Stiles heats for him, drinks four cups of coffee, and is still tired. He feels weirdly off-kilter and can’t stop yawning, despite having apparently slept for ten hours straight. Stiles just nudges at him and steers him back to the bed. “Come on, you. We can snuggle up.” He lets out a yawn of his own and climbs in, and it looks so tempting that Peter doesn’t think twice about joining him.

He notes that the bed linen is suspiciously clean. “Did you clean up after me?”

“After _us_,” Stiles corrects. “We made the mess together.” He arranges himself so his head’s on Peter’s chest and lets out a happy sound.

Peter lays there, content.

* * *

They nap, but not for long, and when they wake they make no move to get out of bed. Instead, Stiles asks, “So, are we going to talk about what a pair of fuckups we are?”

Peter’s tempted to pretend he doesn’t know what Stiles is talking about, but he’s not quite that much of a coward. “You mean the way we both apparently failed sex ed, or the fact we were both too stupid and stubborn to talk to each other?”

Stiles squirms slightly in Peter’s hold, before admitting, “Both? I was afraid you didn’t want me, after the first time was such a train wreck. I thought it must have been awful and that’s why you were avoiding me. I wanted to try again, but I was too afraid to straight out ask, in case you said no. What would I do then?”

Peter’s feels a wave of shame for ever making Stiles think he wasn’t good enough. “I wanted you, sweetheart. I wanted you so badly, but I was afraid of hurting you.” He sighs. “I did plan to talk to you. I tried making notes explaining it, but the rut took over. I ended up with pages of nonsense that were basically all about how I wanted to fuck you stupid.”

Peter half expects Stiles to laugh at him, but he’s silent, and Peter can almost hear the wheels turning in his head. “I skipped the omega ed classes, and I’m terrible at talking about this stuff. otherwise I would have known the locking was a thing, but what about you, Peter? Why did _you_ fail sex ed?”

Peter takes a moment to gather his thoughts, and is quietly grateful when Stiles just waits. Finally he speaks, glad of the cover of darkness. It makes this easier, somehow. “My father was a traditionalist, I think we’ve established that. He was oh, so proud to have an alpha son, after Talia being a beta.” Stiles makes a soft sound to show he’s listening and runs his fingertips down Peter’s arm. “He spouted a lot of terrible dogma, about an omega’s place being at the feet of their alpha, how they’re not smart enough to make decisions, how they don’t really know what they want, how they need a firm hand to keep them in line.” Stiles huffs, indignant, and Peter pets his hair in a soothing gesture. “I know. Toxic garbage, all of it. And I _knew_ that he was wrong, so I deliberately discounted anything he said as being of no value.” He can’t help the sad little laugh that escapes him. “So when he told me, _assured_ me, that omegas love to be knotted, really and truly enjoy it, I dismissed that as well. Told myself he was just making himself feel better about taking what he wanted. He might even have told me about the locking, but I doubt I listened. I’d already vowed to be nothing like him, so why would I take anything he said as truth? And I definitely never paid a lick of attention in the classes at school – I’m as bad as you, skipped most of them. I never intended to mate, so why waste my time?”

Stiles lets out along breath, the air warm against Peter’s skin. “That’s – that’s kinda awful, about your dad. I’m sorry you grew up like that.”

Peter gives a half shrug. “I survived it. And it just made me more determined that if I ever, by some miracle, did find a mate, I’d never force anything on my partner, never take that choice from them.”

Stiles’s voice is quiet. “Except, you did.”

Peter tenses, and he wonders what he did that he doesn’t remember, for Stiles to accuse him so. “You said - you told me I didn’t – “

“Shhh. I don’t mean like that,” Stiles is quick to reassure him, and the icy fingers of dread unwrap their fingers from around Peter’s heart.

“Then how? What did I do?”

Stiles sighs, wiggles his way closer, and the press of skin on skin is calming. “You say you’re all about giving me choices, but I think I was making it pretty clear what I wanted, and you chose to ignore it. You went so far in the direction of consent that you circled right back around to deciding you knew best, and assuming I couldn’t possibly know my own mind.”

It’s so accurate it hurts, and Peter didn't even realize he was doing it.

“I told myself I wouldn’t knot you unless you asked,” he admits, “and it never occurred to me that you _were _asking, just without words.” He leans down and kisses the top of Stiles’s head. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I’m hopeless at this.”

“_We’re _hopeless,” Stiles corrects. “I went to Omega’s Secret and asked Jeremy to find me something to make a blind man see god so I could seduce you, then I broke down crying. He told me about the first time lock and knotting balm and ended up giving me a very detailed sex talk, and now I know way more about him and Deucalion than I ever wanted to, and can never look Deuc in the eye ever again.”

“I may have told Deuc about getting locked,” Peter says. “He assured me it was normal, called me an idiot, read my so-called notes, realized I was in rut, and drove me home."

Stiles props himself up on an elbow, a dim shadow in the dark, and Peter feels rather than sees a hand tracing down the side of his throat in a way that makes him shiver. “Deuc sounds like a good friend. And honestly, I think Jeremy taught me much more in an hour than the school system ever could have. He gave me some very interesting tips.”

“Oh?” Peter’s not even remotely interested in sex, but he’s still intrigued.

“Mhmm. Once we feel up to it, I was hoping maybe we could…play?” Stiles sounds almost shy and Peter’s reminded anew how young his mate is, how new this all is. He knows that for Stiles, asking about this is a step forward.

“I would _love_ to play with you.” He makes his voice a low growl, lets a hint of lust creep into it. “And maybe, you could show me what else is in those shopping bags. Did you get anything special?”

Stiles melts against him, leans in and kisses him, before whispering in his ear, “How do you feel about black leather corsets?” Peter doesn’t mean to let out a whine but apparently it’s the right response, because Stiles laughs quietly and kisses him again, longer this time. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

Then make out lazily, nothing more than soft touches, gentle kisses, but it soothes Peter to the core, knowing his mate is eager and willing, the pressure of second-guessing himself gone. He pulls away long enough to say, “We should have talked sooner. Deuc was right. I'm an idiot. ”

Stiles makes a sound of disagreement. “You're not an idiot. You just got caught in your head.”

Peter thinks about that for a minute, and decides it’s a fair assessment. “I did,” he agrees.

They settle against each other in silence, comfortable. After a few minutes, Stiles says quietly, “From now on, we talk. We ask each other if we want to know things. Even stupid things.”

“Even stupid things,” Peter agrees with a smile, his heart lighter than it has been in weeks.

* * *

They sleep deeply and wake early, and after Stiles whispers shyly in Peter’s ear, they indulge in slow, lazy lovemaking. Peter almost asks Stiles if he’s sure, but he remembers what Stiles said, about trusting him to know his own mind. Afterwards, Stiles slips out of bed and Peter hears the shower running, followed by Stiles shuffling around getting dressed. He lies where he is, comfortable and sated, eyes closed even after Stiles leaves the room, presumably heading for the kitchen. They snap open when he hears the crash of something hitting the wall followed by Stiles yelling, “That goddam motherfucking _asshole!”_

He sits bolt upright in bed just as Stiles comes storming into the bedroom waving his phone. “Gerard fucking Argent! He -” Stiles has to stop, unable to speak, nostrils flaring and teeth clenched. He resembles nothing more than a bull who wants to jam his horns into the nearest matador.

“He what, sweetheart?” Peter holds out a hand.

Stiles practically flings the phone at him. “He’s a lying piece of shit, and we can prove him wrong, but I’m so damn angry! How dare he say that about my dad, about _you?_”

Peter scans the article from the local news page, and he understands now why Stiles was throwing things. He drops the phone on the bed with a heartfelt, “Well, fuck.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gerard chose the wrong couple to mess with.

Right at the top of the article, there’s a photo of Stiles when he was leaving the Mexican restaurant the other night, eyes red with tears, arm around his dad’s neck. There’s an embedded closeup of his hand - minus the claiming ring. The headline proclaims _Hale mating in tatters_, _omega breaks down publicly. Mayor nowhere to be seen._

Peter only has to read a few sentences further to find what has Stiles so mad.

_Mayoral candidate Gerard Argent was quoted as saying, “I’m not surprised the mating broke down. Mayor Hale’s omega is a victim of so-called progress. First his incompetent father failed to raise him in a manner fitting his status, and then his mate, instead of teaching him his place, has filled his head with more liberal nonsense. I heard rumors of the omega enrolling in college! How can the boy possibly be happy with his lot if he’s allowed to think too much?” _

Stiles has always been ridiculously protective of his father - it's why he mated in the first place. Trying to discredit the Sheriff? Peter shakes his head at Gerard's folly. He skims the rest of the article, which ends with _Mayor Hale cannot be reached at this time._

He glances at the date of the article, notes it’s from Tuesday. He runs a hand down his face and sighs, irritated. He has to give Gerard credit – his timing’s impeccable. This has been floating around for days while he was unreachable, which makes it all look much more damning. Any happy feelings that were lingering quickly dissolve in the face of Stiles’s ire and the need to shut this down, and fast. Luckily, Peter’s always believed in planning ahead.

“Failed to bring me up right,” Stiles mutters, pacing and seething “He means my dad isn’t a fucking Neanderthal, is what he means.”

Peter holds out his arms. “Come here, and let’s read this monstrosity properly, then we can come up a plan of action.”

Stiles shakes his head. “I don’t want to read it. I want to set it on fucking fire. Set _him_ on fire.”

“Nonetheless, know your enemy. Sit.” He indicates the side of the bed. Stiles scowls, but does as he’s told. Peter scrolls back to the top of the article and begins to read. Basically, it’s a campaign speech wrapped up in a hatchet job, with Gerard criticizing anything and everything he can think of, including Stiles’s plans for a degree.

_“Mayor Hale planning to send his mate to college shows how out of touch he is with traditional values. Conventional wisdom, which the mayor seems determined to ignore, tells us that college and omegas is a bad mix. Too much higher education makes them very unhappy and very frustrated. They should be contented to stay home cooking meals and running a house. If they have too much education their mind’s stimulated too much, and they’re not happy to stay home all the time.”_

“Asshole,” Stiles mutters to himself. Peter leans in and bumps their shoulders together in agreement as he continues reading.

_“Alphas don’t want a mate to discuss world problems with, they have other alphas for that. An omega is there to take care of them. High school is more than enough to equip them for that. Too much education fogs the mind, makes an omega dissatisfied with their lot. Mayor Hale, in giving his mate all the freedom he thinks he wants, has driven the poor, simple boy to a breakdown under the weight of all the added responsibility. Omegas just aren’t built for independence, and if Hale can’t understand that simple fact and manage his mate, how can he possibly be fit to manage our fair city?”_

The rest of it is rumors and speculation about their supposed mating breakdown, and Peter doesn’t know who Gerard’s source is, but he has to admit, they’ve done a good job of spinning a tale out of nothing. Peter’s disappearance, it’s hinted, is so that he can lick his wounds at being deserted.

“Well,” he sighs. “We have our work cut out for us.”

Stiles turns to him, eyes narrowed, suspicious. “Why aren’t you more upset?” he demands. “He fucking _lied_, Peter. And this will fuck over my dad’s election chances, and yours. Sling enough mud, and it sticks.”

Peter wraps an arm around Stiles’s shoulders and pulls him closer. “I'm not as upset as you, sweetheart, because I know Argent, and I knew he’d fight dirty. I wasn't sure what exactly he'd pull, but regardless, I’ve already taken steps.” Stiles turns to face him, eyes silently asking, so Peter elaborates. “I also wasn’t expecting him to strike while I was in a sexed-out haze, but we can turn that to our advantage. Stay there, just for a second. You’re about to help my campaign immensely.”

“What – “ Stiles is cut off as Peter surges forward and latches onto the soft skin of his neck. Peter puts everything he has into it, and the give of the flesh under his teeth as he sucks and bites goes a long way to soothing his annoyance, as do Stiles’s helpless whimpers. 

When Peter pulls away there’s a deep, livid bruise, stark against Stiles’s pale skin. “A few more I think,” he murmurs, before pushing Stiles back against the bed and working his way up the column of Stiles’s throat, leaving a series of fresh bruises. Finally he pulls away, satisfied with his handiwork.

Stiles blinks at him from where he’s laid out across the bed. “Is this _really_ the time?” he asks, pink-cheeked and slightly breathless.

Peter smirks. “It’s absolutely the time. You need to look claimed when we have our press conference.”

“Press conference,” Stiles repeats dumbly.

Peter helps Stiles into a sitting position. “I have no doubt Deuc’s already all over this, but yes. A press conference to refute these scandalous claims. Plus, if things work out like I have planned, we'll bury Gerard up to his neck.”

Stiles frowns. “Peter, this is serious. Look.” He picks up the discarded phone and scrolls down to the comments section. It’s filled with things like _‘Well said. Good megs are seen and not heard’, ‘teach the kid his place’, ‘Argent has my vote’, ‘sheriff always was weak. Not surprised his kid’s useless as well._’ And other similar comments. There are also links to other interviews by Gerard, who’s taken full advantage of Peter’s absence.

_“Where is the Mayor? Is he hiding from his failure as an Alpha?”_

_“Broken Omega Stilinski – a classic example of the failure of modern values”_

_“Local sheriff’s poor parenting highlighted as Hale mating in doubt.”_

_“Too much freedom for omegas will always end in tears, Argent asserts.”_

Stiles taps the screen. “He’s hung us out to dry. I wonder if he knew you were in rut?”

Peter thinks about it. “Nobody at the council would have told him. We have a policy of not sharing that kind of information about staff – it’s invasive and unnecessary.”

“So, he might genuinely think you’ve run for the hills?”

Peter makes a dismissive sound. “Of course he doesn’t. It wouldn’t take much guesswork to figure out what’s happened. But he’s certainly made my silence work for him.”

Stiles slumps. “So, he spouts all this bullshit about you and my dad, and now it doesn’t matter what we say, because it’s too late, the damage is done. I guess we’re screwed. It just makes me _so fucking angry_ that he can do this.”

Peter fixes Stiles with a steely gaze. “I’m hurt by your lack of faith, Stiles. This is inconvenient, yes, but only because of the timing. It’s quite killed my post-rut afterglow - I'd planned to spend at least a day recovering and spoiling you. But don’t, for a single second, doubt that I’ll win this. I’ll make Gerard Argent regret the day he ever crossed me.”

Stiles bites his lip, his breathing turning shallow. “Wow. You’re kinda scary right now but it’s hot as hell. Is it wrong that I’m turned on?”

Peter looks at the fresh marks he left on Stiles’s neck, the way the skin moves as Stiles swallows, and makes an executive decision. They have time. He pulls Stiles in for a kiss, long and heated, before purring in his ear, “Sweetheart, it’s never wrong to be turned on. What would you like?”

Stiles dips his head, and glancing up from under his lashes, he breathes out, “Ride you?”

Peter gives him predatory smile. “Absolutely.”

* * *

When Peter finally turns on his phone an hour later, he has several texts from John. There are also numerous missed calls from the Beacon Enquirer, presumably trying to reach him for comment. Peter ignores them for now. There’s a voice message from Chris Argent that has Peter checking his emails and nodding in satisfaction, and one from Deuc that says, “I know you’re busy, but call me as soon as you can think about anything happening above the waist. It’s Argent.”

He dials Deucalion. “I saw,” he says, as soon as Deuc answers.

“Let me guess, you have a plan?” Deucalion sounds more amused that concerned, Peter notes.

“Of course. What’s that old saying about glass houses, remind me?”

Deuc chuckles softly before changing the subject. “I assume you and your boy sorted things out, given how chipper you sound?”

Peter’s tone is soft. “We did. And thank you, for telling me what I needed to hear, even when I didn’t want to hear it.”

“It was my pleasure. I do so love it when you’re wrong.”

“You’re a terrible person,” Peter retorts, but he’s smiling as he says it.

“Of course I am. That’s why we’re friends. Now, tell me what you have planned.”

“Not just me,” Peter corrects him. “Stiles and I have had a long discussion, (_while he was locked on my knot,_ he doesn’t add) and we plan to use all the weapons at our disposal to ruin Gerard, once and for all.”

“Do I want to know?”

Peter laughs. “I’d hate to spoil the surprise. Let me make some calls, schedule a press conference, and then you can just sit back and enjoy the fireworks.”

* * *

Stiles doesn’t see much of Peter for the rest of the day, but it doesn’t stir up insecurity the way it might have even last week, because he can tell Peter’s focused on getting all his ducks in a row. While they were tied together (and Stiles has decided that riding Peter and then getting to sprawl across him while they’re knotted is definitely one of his favorite positions), Peter outlined the conversation he’d had with Chris Argent last week, and what he plans to do with the information. Stiles had propped himself up on his elbows, hummed thoughfully, and said, “No. It’s not enough. We need to make it worse, expose him for the truly poisonous asshole he is. His mate’s not the only omega he’s treated like shit, and he should pay.” Peter had quirked a questioning brow. Stiles had taken a moment to grind down, giving a little sigh of pleasure because he really was enjoying this, and then he’d said, “Remember how I can play meek and mild pretty well when I want to?" Peter nods. "I wonder what the effect would be of a poor, tear stained omega revealing that Gerard threatened him with unspeakable things in a darkened carpark?”

Peter's hips had stilled, and he'd growled. “What unspeakable things? What did he say that you didn’t you tell me about?” and Stiles had basked in his possessiveness for a moment before putting Peter out of his misery.

“He didn’t say shit. But nobody else knows that. And that’s the point. They’re _unspeakable_ things. I couldn’t possibly repeat them. And if I don’t repeat them, he can’t refute them, right?”

Peter’s eyes had lit up with understanding. “You really are a vindictive little beast, aren’t you?”

Stiles hadn’t bothered to apologize. “He needs to learn not to mess with me, and I plan to teach him.”

Peter had chuckled and pulled him closer, rolling his hips and making Stiles’s breath catch. “I knew you were perfect for me.”

* * *

The local media and interested onlookers gather for a press conference on Friday afternoon in council chambers, along with John, Peter, Stiles, and by special invitation, Gerard. It’s obvious he doesn’t want to be here, but since Peter had issued the invitation publicly, he couldn’t very well turn it down, so he’s standing off to one side, arms folded and mouth pulled into a frown, hackles obviously raised.

Peter’s called them here “to answer any questions about the state of my mating,” and both the local paper and the area TV news crew are here – the gossip’s too juicy for them to risk missing something.

It’s Peter who steps up first.

“I’d like to thank you all for taking the time to be here. As I’m sure you’re all aware, some things are outside of our control, and my mate and I have been incommunicado this week while we took some…personal time.” It’s a time-honored euphemism for _fucked each other stupid, _and he sees heads nodding in understanding. “I know you’ve been trying to get hold of me, but I was…” he pauses, gives a suggestive smile, “…somewhat tied up.” He raises an eyebrow, and laughter runs through the room.

Perfect.

He lets his smile drop. “You can imagine my dismay when, after spending this most precious of times together, we emerged to find that Mr. Argent had taken advantage of our absence, and had spread falsehoods about the state of our mating, based on a single picture which has been wildly misinterpreted.”

A hand shoots up – it’s the reporter from the local paper, the one Peter is friends with and who he invited specifically. “Can you explain what is happening in that picture?” he asks, just as they planned.

Peter plasters on an indulgent smile. “Why don’t you ask my mate?”

Stiles has been standing out of view behind a partition to the side, and when he steps out Peter hears murmurs run through the gathering. Stiles has worn a white shirt that’s open at the throat, and the marks Peter put all over him are clearly visible. Stiles looks freshly- fucked, there’s no other way to put it. (He is. Peter knotted him before they left home, both for the look of the thing and because they both felt like it_._) He certainly doesn’t look like the poor, sad, broken omega that Gerard’s been making him out to be. His lips are kiss-swollen and his hair looks like someone’s had their hands tangled in it. He runs a hand self-consciously down his neck and lowers his head the tiniest bit. If Peter didn’t know better, he’d actually believe Stiles was submitting. “Come on over, sweet boy,” he croons, “And explain what happened.”

Stiles bites his lip, twisting the fingers of both hands together nervously, and Peter takes one hand in a show of calming him, but in fact it’s to display his ring, firmly in place and newly polished. Stiles looks up and swallows. “So, um. We went to dinner with my Dad, and he and Peter were talking politics, and it was just so interesting I got caught up listening I guess, and I didn’t pay attention to what I was eating.” He pauses for a beat. “I was dumb enough to bite a chilli, and it bit back.”

He makes a face that clearly says he’s embarrassed at his stupidity. A few people chuckle, and Peter runs a soothing hand down his shoulder. “Poor baby. He wasn’t prepared for the heat, were you, sweetheart?”

Stiles shakes his head. “I wasn’t crying when I left. My eyes were still watering. And I was hugging my dad because, well, he’s my dad. He’s always been there for me, and I’m so grateful to have him.” It’s sugary sentiment at its best, and the affectionate look Stiles casts in his dad’s direction sells it.

“And the ring?” the reporter prompts.

Stiles holds his hand up, waggling his fingers. “Isn’t it gorgeous? This is a replacement. I wasn’t wearing it that night because the first one met a mishap under the hood of my jeep, lost some stones.”

“So, you’re not separated?”

Peter’s arm snakes round Stiles’s waist, and he holds him by his side. “Absolutely not. We’re deliriously happy. I’m truly not surprised my body pulled rank, so to speak. How could I not be affected by this charming creature?” Peter gives Stiles a soft kiss before continuing. “These are purely malicious rumors, no, _lies_, on the part of my political opponent, a sad, desperate man who’s attempting to gain some ground because his voter numbers are frankly awful. We’re closer than ever, after this last week.” Stiles gazes at Peter adoringly while the reporters dutifully take notes, and it’s only the tiniest quirk at the corner of his mouth that gives away how much he’s enjoying playing his part.

Peter returns the tiny smile.

The rumors have been addressed. On to phase two.

Peter puts on his most serious expression and lets out a heavy sigh. “There is one other thing I’d like to address while we’re all gathered here. I believe it's also possible the onset of my recent ...condition was hastened by a hormonal surge, in response to a threat to Stiles. I found Gerard Argent harassing my mate in the parking lot, only minutes after this picture was taken, possibly by Mr. Argent himself. Is that something you make a habit of, terrifying young omegas after dark, or was it a one-time thing, Gerard?”

Gerard’s mouth drops open and there’s silence as he tries to find an answer that won’t incriminate him. He can’t, of course. Peter’s put far too much thought into how he worded the question. Peter doesn’t give him any time to think, presses his advantage. “Imagine my shock when I came out of the restaurant after paying for dinner to find that Gerard had my mate backed against a car, and was making unsavory suggestions.”

“Untrue! All I said was he shouldn’t be out unsupervised!” Gerard protests hotly.

All eyes swivel to him, and that’s when John steps in. “Wait. You’re telling me you're _admitting_ that you cornered a mated omega when he was alone?” There’s a collective gasp, and the outrage is palpable. Peter would swear John’s hearing this for the first time, and he takes a moment to think that now he knows where Stiles gets his dramatic tendencies from. John’s voice shakes when he asks the carefully rehearsed question. “Did he – did he touch you, kiddo?”

Stiles takes a shaky breath. “He put his hands on me,” he whispers. “He said…things. Awful things.”

There’s a shocked murmur and Peter hears the click of cameras.

John steps forward till he’s inches from Gerard, hand resting on the butt of his gun. “I should lock you up right now. Stiles, you pressing charges?”

Gerard pales for a second, but Stiles shakes his head. “No. It’s not worth it. Besides, my alpha protected me.” Peter watches the relief wash over Gerard’s face and smiles to himself. The old man clearly thinks he’s had a lucky escape.

Peter can’t wait to see his face when he discovers otherwise.

They allow a moment for things to settle, and then, when Peter sees a figure slip in the back door, he gives a nod and Stiles speaks on cue, his words ringing out clearly in the quiet, addressing Gerard directly. “You know, Mr. Argent only left when Peter asked where his mate was. Where _is _your mate, Mr. Argent?”

Gerard’s eyes widen. “She’s visiting her sister!’ he sputters.

Peter steps back up to the podium. “Except she isn’t, is she?”

He flicks a switch on the remote he’s holding and a screen on the wall lights up. “I’ve wondered for a long time about your mate’s absence, was curious about why she's been gone so long, so I decided to do some digging. Let me share what I’ve found.” Gerard makes a futile grab for the remote but John’s quick to catch his wrist and twist it up his back. Gerard only struggles for a moment, but Peter knows it’s enough to convey the image of a guilty man. “As I was saying, I have some interesting facts to share.”

Peter waits until all eyes are on him. “Fact one. Nobody’s seen Annabel Argent in over twelve months. Even if she was visiting family, she’d be expected home for her heats, but nothing.”

Gerard’s mouth opens and closes, but no words escape.

“Fact two,” Peter continues smoothly. “When I called Mrs. Argent’s sister, she confirmed that she hasn’t heard from her sister in twelve months either. She said she assumed that what she referred to as _“Annabel’s shitheel of a mate”_ was restricting contact again.” He clicks the remote, and a handwritten letter appears on screen from a Miriam Duchenne, stating that Annabel Argent is not and has never been staying with her.

He pauses for effect before clicking the remote, showing a final account from a telco. “Fact three. Mrs. Argent’s cell phone service was cancelled a year ago. Odd.”

“She changed providers, that’s all,” Gerard spits out.

“Yet there’s no record of her having an active service. I checked,” Peter carries on. “It’s like she… disappeared somehow.” He turns a bright smile on Gerard. “I love what you’ve done in your yard, by the way. Those new garden beds are flourishing. They must have had excellent fertilizer.”

There’s a low muttering as the implications of what he’s saying become clear.

“I – are you implying – I didn’t kill my mate!” Gerard’s face is going a terrifying shade of purple, and Peter can see a vein throbbing in his temple. He’s glad they decided to exploit Stiles’s theory of Gerard burying his mate in the backyard – he’s enjoying Gerard’s reaction immensely. It’s time to stop playing though, and go in for the kill.

He waits a minute, letting Gerard sputter out his protestations of innocence, before interrupting, “Oh, I know.”

Gerard stops mid-sentence. “You know?”

Peter smiles, predatory and vengeful, and lifts a hand, waving the shadowy figure forward. “Of course I know. I asked your son.”

Chris Argent strides up to the podium and extends a hand, and Peter shakes it firmly. “Good to see you, Christopher.” He turns to the gathered reporters, and you could hear a pin drop. “Christopher Argent has flown in with information to share regarding the whereabouts of his mother.”

Gerard starts struggling anew in John’s grip. “You don’t know where she is! Nobody knows where that treacherous bitch is!”

Chris doesn’t even spare Gerard a glance, just barks out, “Shut up, old man. _I _know where she is. I’ve always known.”

He turns to face the reporters. “I guess you want to know what happened to my mother, the mate of the man who’s all about ‘tradition’ and ‘old fashioned values’, huh?” Unexpectedly, Chris breaks into a grin. “She’s in Rio.”

Peter takes great satisfaction in the way Gerard chokes on his spit. Chris raises his eyebrows at the gathering. “You want the full story?” There’s a flurry of nods, the click of cameras. Chris clears his throat. “Little over a year ago, I came home for a visit. My Mom was in a bad situation. Her health was failing, and her alpha either didn’t notice, or didn‘t care.”

“She was just being lazy! She needed to pull herself together, that’s all!” Gerard rasps out, but he’s quick to shut his mouth when Chris shoots him a look that’s pure venom.

“She begged me to take her to a doctor. She couldn’t go on her own, because her Alpha didn’t give her the right. But as her alpha son, I could take her. Turned out she was severely anemic. She cried when she found out it was something so simple. She’d been terrified it was something more serious for months.”

There’s low grumbling, and Peter catches snippets of _“- would deny their mate medical care-“ “bigger asshole than I thought-“ “ no wonder she left –“_

“I’ve never agreed with my father’s views, but this time he’d gone too far. I told my mom if she wanted out, I could make it happen. She wanted out, so I made it happen.” He shrugs, as if it was the simplest thing in the world.

There’s a moment’s silence, and then someone asks, “But – Rio?”

Chris’s grin gets wider. “Well, I originally took her there for a holiday, to recover from the bond-breaking shots. They left her pretty weak. Yeah, she got them, dissolved all connection to _him_." He spits out the word as he nods towards his father."Took them first chance she got,” he says, before anyone even asks. “Wanted to be free and clear.”

Gerard’s almost apoplectic now, hissing, “How dare she! That ungrateful - ”

_“Anyway,”_ Chris cuts him off. “Funny thing. When we got there, away from _him,_ my mom, she...changed. _Blossomed_. Went from this mousy little thing, scared of her own shadow, to a woman who laughed, and danced, sang and drank tequila. I’m ashamed it took me so long to help her get free, truth be told.” His expression falls for just a second, but then he smiles softly. “And now, my mom? She’s found someone, someone who cares for her and likes her as she is. She’s living with a beta, an exotic dancer named Miguel, and she tells me she's never been happier. For the first time in her life, she's in love.”

Stiles shuffles closer to Peter and breathes in his ear, “Oh, this is fucking _gold.”_

Peter nods, smirking. He doesn’t think it could get any better than this.

Except, it does.

“Miguel – that – bitch – an exotic – _a beta!_ “ Gerald chokes out, right before he starts gasping and clutching at his chest. John chooses that exact moment to let go, and Gerard hits the floor with a satisfying thud. 

* * *

They watch the ambulance drive away, Stiles looping one arm over Peter’s shoulder and leaning on him. “I should feel bad, but I really don’t.”

Peter shrugs. “It was only a minor heart attack. And really, it was probably all that takeout he ate while his ex-mate was in Rio.”

“With a dancer. Named Miguel,” Stiles snorts. He nods at Chris. “I like him.” He pauses and whispers in Peter’s ear, “He’s pretty.”

Peter elbows him sharply in the ribs. “What did we say about flirting with other alphas, Stiles?”

“That you’re a giant whiny man-baby who gets jealous?” Stiles kisses Peter’s cheek, grinning, before adding, “Besides, I’m not interested in flirting, no matter how good looking he is. I’m happy with you.”

“And I, you.” Peter gives Stiles a speculative look. “Who would have guessed when we first met that you had such a ruthless streak?”

“Only when I need to. Only if someone threatens what’s mine.”

“Yes,” Peter muses. “Going after your father was a mistake.”

Stiles slaps Peter’s arm and rolls his eyes. “I meant _you_, dumbass.”

Peter’s more pleased than he’d like to admit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I directly lifted the quotes about omegas and education from this charming video from 1961, which debated whether higher education was wasted on women. Go ahead, watch it. But be warned, frequent outbursts of "Are you fucking kidding me?" are likely, along with the urge to throw things.  
["is education a waste of time for married women?"](https://www.facebook.com/ABCTV/videos/2416326355163715/)
> 
> There's a longer version, around ten minutes, but I couldn't bring myself to watch the whole thing.  
[Education for married women full version](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b5K-pIRUnbY)


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are one or two things the boys have left unsaid....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy crap, it's the end. Nobody's more surprised as me - I literally typed the last sentence and went..."oh. That's where it finishes."  
I hope you like it!

Their showdown goes viral.

The footage of Gerard screeching right before he collapses makes it onto Youtube under the title, _“Traditionalist Alpha’s reaction to hearing his mate left him for a beta stripper.”_ It gets picked up by one of the bigger networks, and within a week has over a million hits.

The image of Gerard, face purple and twisted in rage, becomes a meme.

Needless to say, he withdraws from the mayoral race citing health reasons, leaving Peter unopposed. Chris wastes no time putting him into a permanent care facility. He’s there indefinitely, unable to leave, ‘for the good of his health.’

It’s the icing on the cake when they discover that the whole reason Gerard was running again was because he needed the money. Peter’s positively gleeful as Chris reveals over dinner that when he helped his mom leave, he took advantage of the fact that he was signatory on the family’s bank accounts and cleaned his father out almost completely. He split the proceeds between himself, his mom, and his sister, who was forced into a mating to an alpha she despised, and she promptly took the chance to follow in her mother’s footsteps.

“I didn’t think you had it in you, Christopher. It’s almost a shame we didn’t end up together. Imagine the havoc we could have wreaked,” Peter muses.

It’s Stiles’s turn to elbow Peter in the ribs and give him an unimpressed glare. “What did we say about flirting with other alphas, remind me again?”

Chris just laughs, calls them a pair of besotted fools.

* * *

On the drive home from dinner, Stiles is strangely quiet. Peter leaves him be – whatever Stiles is thinking about, it’ll come out sooner or later. It does, when they’re getting ready for bed that night.

Stiles has undressed and his back is to Peter when he asks, “What about your mom?”

“What about her?” Peter’s parents both died in a car accident several years back. It makes him sad sometimes to think his mother never got to meet Stiles. He thinks she would have approved.

“Do you think she was as miserable as Annabel?”

Peter wraps his arms around Stiles from behind. “No. My father was bad, but never as bad as Gerard. And my mom…” Peter has to pause, to find the right words. “She was traditional as well, so she thought it right and proper that my father was in charge.” Stiles nods in understanding. There are still plenty of omegas who are happy with the status quo. “On the surface, she was completely submissive. But the fundamental difference between my mother and Annabel is that my father, for all his many faults, was genuinely fond of her, and that gave her a certain measure of control over her own life. It wasn’t till I was much older that I was able to see that.”

“So, she was happy?” Stiles persists.

“I think she was as happy as she could be, and I know she cared for my father.” Peter lays soft kisses along the nape of Stiles’s neck, stopping to ask, “Why are you suddenly interested?”

Stiles drops his head forward to give Peter better access. “I’d just like to think it wasn’t terrible for her, okay? Call it curiosity.”

Peter’s not fooled. “You feel sorry for her.”

“I feel sorry for anyone in a shitty mating. And I’m not sure how I got so lucky, but makes me think about other people who don’t have it as good.”

Peter can tell that if Stiles keeps pondering on this, he’ll end up drowning in dark thoughts, so he does what he can to pull him out of it. “If it helps, my father’s views mellowed a lot over the years, and my mother learned to manoeuvre him nicely. They were both happier for it. My father distanced himself from Gerard when he made his distaste for me and my opinions known. I was the alpha child, my father’s pride and joy, so an attack on me was an attack on his parenting.”

Stiles hums. “I’m glad. But I’m still lucky you don’t tell me what to do.”

Peter leaves a trail of kisses across Stiles’s bared shoulders. “You know, sometimes I _will _actually tell you what you to do and expect you to listen.”

Stiles snorts. “I mean, you can _try._”

Peter slaps Stiles’s ass playfully. “For example, I’d quite like to see you all wrapped in leather. I could order you to go and put on that corset you’ve been teasing me with.”

Stiles relaxes in his hold. “You could do that,” he agrees.

“Well? What are you waiting for?” Peter gives another light slap, and doesn’t miss the way Stiles’s cheeks pink up, nor the way his cock twitches. _Oh_. “And don’t forget to add pretty panties. I want to tear them off you.”

Stiles sounds slightly breathless when he squeaks out, “Yes, alpha.”

* * *

John’s re-elected with an impressive margin. Peter’s convinced John’s numbers were boosted by Peter’s endorsement, his frequent mentions of how Stiles is an excellent mate and that John raised an omega to be proud of. Stiles is equally convinced that it’s due to the screenshots of the expression his dad was wearing when he dropped Gerard, the one that suggested he was So Very Done.

Either way, Beacon Hills re-elects him, and wasn't that the idea all along?

* * *

The year flies by, and before they know it, it’s time for college to start. Stiles is twitchy as all hell the night before, but Peter holds him and strokes his back until he’s calm, which leads to his hands wandering down to Stiles’s ass, which leads to other stroking, and Peter ends up grinding in long and slow, working his knot deep as he makes soothing noises, and it settles Stiles's nerves more than he’d like to admit when Peter promises that if Stiles needs him, call and he’ll be there. Stiles doesn’t plan to need him, he’s not some pathetic kid, but still. It’s nice to know the offer’s there, just in case some asshole decides to start something.

* * *

He doesn’t need him, because nobody tries to start anything.

Apparently, the combination of being the Mayor’s mate, the son of the Sheriff, and ‘that Youtube guy’ adds up to Stiles being the person that nobody in their right minds wants to upset, omega or not.

And Stiles? He takes to college like a duck to water. He settles in, finds a social circle who actually appreciate him. It’s pretty great, actually. Sure, there are days he wants to tear his hair out at the well-meaning morons who ask him if he’s sure he can cope with college, and sometimes when an assignment is causing him grief he fleetingly wonders the same thing himself, but mostly it’s fine.

And okay, there are nights when it’s a scramble to get his homework done in time and still manage to make himself look respectable so Peter can wear him as arm candy to a civic function, but he manages, purely as a ‘_fuck you’_ to those people who mutter about how he can’t possibly study and fulfill his obligations as a good spouse.

Luckily, Peter doesn’t expect him to keep house. They split the load, both spending a couple of hours every Saturday morning cleaning. The last job’s always stripping the bed, because Peter likes to drag Stiles back there when he’s sweaty and rumpled from the housework, and Stiles likes to let him, and it would be a waste to dirty up clean sheets.

They have a lot of sex, but at the same time, not as much as Stiles was expecting. It causes a spike of anxiety when, five months into their mating, there’s a week where Peter doesn’t make any kind of move on him, but Stiles is learning, so he asks. He waits till it’s dark and they’re nearly asleep to do it, granted, but he does ask.

“Peter?”

“Mmm?”

“Is - are we okay?”

There’s the rustle of sheets and a click as the bedside lamp turns on. Peter’s sitting up in bed, half-squinting at him. “Why wouldn’t we be okay?”

Stiles sits up as well, since Peter’s so rudely stolen the cover of darkness. “I just wondered, because you haven’t wanted to, y’know.”

Peter blinks once or twice, and Stiles can see the moment he understands. “Sweetheart, it’s not you.”

“Are you sure?” It’s dumb, but he has to check. “Because if it’s something I’m doing, or not doing, I can –“

Peter holds up a hand. “Think about it. We’ve been out three nights this week at official functions, and I’ve lost four staff in the last month, so I’ve been working back every other night. Honestly? I’d like nothing better than to roll you onto your back and fuck you senseless, but I’m exhausted.” He runs a hand down his face, and Stiles can see the dark circles under his eyes.

“Shit. I didn’t think.”

Peter gives him a weary smile. “I’m not as young as you, and I can’t keep going on coffee and energy drinks, that’s all. It's just life. But believe me, we’re more than okay.” Peter hooks one finger under Stiles’s chin and draws him close for a soft kiss, but then he has to pull away at the last second to let out a yawn.

Stiles shoves at Peter’s chest lightly. “Wow. Okay, I can take a hint. Go to sleep.”

“Sorry, sweetheart.” Peter’s already reaching for the light, and it’s not long before Stiles hears his breathing, deep and regular.

Stiles sleeps too, reassured.

* * *

The next night Peter comes home on time, muttering about pushy underlings who won’t take no for an answer. He stops short almost as soon as he’s in the door, sniffing. “Something smells delicious. Did you cook?”

Stiles gives a pleased smile and nods. “Yeah. And the pushy underling was my fault. I texted Deuc, asked him to get you out the door on time.” He steps forward and takes Peter’s briefcase and jacket from him, and then leads him through to the living room, where he manhandles him onto the couch. Peter raises an eyebrow, but lets himself be led.

There’s a glass of scotch on the rocks waiting, and Stiles eases Peter’s socks and shoes off. “Drink that while I rub your feet,” he instructs, and is gratified when Peter picks up the glass and takes a deep swallow. He arranges them so Peter’s feet are in his lap and begins to stroke the soles, earning a soft groan. Encouraged, he does it again, running his thumb up the arch.

“Mmmm, heavenly,” Peter sighs, and Stiles glances up to see Peter’s head thrown back and a smile on his face. He carries on rubbing Peter’s feet until the timer on the over beeps. He gets up, leaving Peter sprawled on the couch, and goes to rescue his slow-cooked beef.

Once everything’s ready, he leads a contented looking Peter to the table and dishes up the beef, the freshly baked bread, the mashed potatoes, the gravy, and the roast vegetables. Peter looks down at the meal and up at Stiles, and he wonders for a split second if this is stupid, if he’s become everything Peter never wanted in an omega, the dreaded little Suzy Homemaker, but then Peter’s face splits into a wide smile. “You’re very thoughtful, sweetheart. Thank you.” The praise makes Stiles’s insides flutter and he’s helpless to stop the warm feeling it gives him, doesn’t want to.

They eat, then Stiles produces the apple pie he made with the help of the internet, and Peter devours half of it before giving a quiet moan of satisfaction as he pushes his plate back. “That was wonderful.”

Stiles fetches him another drink. “I’m glad you think so. Stay here, just for a minute?”

Peter nods. “I’m too full to move.”

Stiles darts into the bathroom and starts running the bath, then he goes and fetches Peter, leading him into the bedroom and sitting him down on the bed so he can undress him. It’s so very traditional, the undressing of the alpha, but it gives Stiles an unexpected sense of satisfaction when he loosens Peter’s tie, pops the buttons on his shirt, and peels him carefully out of it. He kneels between Peter’s feet and undoes his belt and his pants, nudging him to stand so Stiles can remove those as well, and then Stiles leads him through to the now full bathtub.

The candles he lit are flickering softly, and Peter looks around, confused. “Are you trying to seduce me, sweet boy?”

Stiles shakes his head. “Actually, no. I just wanted to do something nice, take care of you.”

When Peter smiles at him this time the corners of his eyes crinkle in a way that’s unfairly attractive, and Stiles wonders if maybe he should seduce him after all, but he pushes that thought away. It’s not what this is about. While Peter eases himself into the tub, Stiles kneels next to it. Peter gives him a questioning glance, and Stiles holds up the bodywash and the cloth he’s holding. “Let me?”

Peter’s eyes are already drifting closed as he leans his head back and makes a ‘go ahead’ gesture.

Stiles washes Peter slowly, keeping his touches light. He stops to ask “Hair?” but Peter shakes his head.

“Be a nightmare of curls if I get it wet. Leave it.”

Stiles does as he’s told, and after Peter’s soaked for long enough that the water’s getting cool, Stiles helps him out. “Spoiling me. Don’t deserve you,“ Peter slurs, almost asleep on his feet.

“I’m pretty great,” Stiles agrees, both charmed and overwhelmed at how easily he’s caused Peter to come apart at the seams. He dries Peter off and leads him to the bed, where he manages to get him laying face down without too much trouble. He straddles Peter’s hips, then pours the massage oil he has ready into his hands and starts to knead at his shoulders. He’s never tried this, but judging by the contented noises Peter’s making he must be doing something right.

“Get oil on th’ sheets,” Peter mumbles into the bedding.

“It’s fine. We’ll change them tomorrow,” Stiles soothes, as he continues to use his hands on the knots in Peter’s back, feeling the muscles loosen under his touch. “We should go for a spa weekend,” he muses. “You and me, getting pampered for a couple of days. We deserve it.”

“Mpfh,” says the puddle of Mayor that’s currently melting into the bedding. Stiles smiles to himself, and runs his thumbs up either side of Peter’s spine, earning a gloriously deep groan.

"Yes," he decides. “We’ll check our calendar, work it round my assignments and your meetings. Sound good?”

The only response he gets is a soft snore.

He looks down fondly at his mate before fetching a warm cloth to wipe the oil off Peter’s skin, rolling him over, and tucking him in. Then he slips downstairs and cleans up the kitchen, purely because he knows that if he leaves it, future him will regret it. Once he’s finished, he looks over his assignments and decides that nothing’s due, so he’s taking the night off from studying. He settles in and watches a cheesy rom-com instead.

When he finally goes to bed around midnight, Peter hasn’t moved a muscle.

* * *

Stiles wakes the next morning to Peter plastered against his back and warm hands ghosting over his nipples, teasing. “Good morning, sweetheart,” Peter purrs in his ear. He nudges at Stiles until he flops over onto his back, then leans in to kiss him softly.

Stiles accepts it, gives him a sleepy smile. “Morning. Sleep well?”

“How could I not? My wonderful mate pampered me into unconsciousness.” Peter rolls his hips, and Stiles can feel Peter’s erection pressing into his leg. “Right now, I’m wondering if said wonderful mate would like me to pamper him back.”

Stiles pretends to think about it. “Pamper me how, exactly?”

“I want to take you apart, make you come until you can’t, and then I want to fuck you so hard you’ll feel it for days and plug you up with my knot.”

Stiles stares up into blue eyes, knows his mouth has dropped open. Gods, he loves it when Peter’s like this, commanding and confident, telling Stiles exactly what he wants. It’s something they’ve both gotten better at. Which is why Stiles barely blushes when he says, “Use your mouth?”

Peter gives him that predatory grin that Stiles loves. “Oh, I plan to.”

* * *

The housework is delayed until Saturday afternoon. They’re busy making up for lost time.

* * *

Stiles has his not-heat in November, and this time they’re prepared. They both arrange to take a week off, and stock up on the awful protein bars. When Peter’s rut hits though, it's much less intense this time.

“S’cause we’re having all the sex now. You’re not all pent up,” Stiles mumbles into Peter’s pec, sprawled boneless across his chest.

“Mmmm.” Peter nudges him. “Again?”

Stiles rolls over and drags Peter with him. “Okay, but you do the work this time.” Peter doesn't answer, too busy kissing his way down Stiles's body.

The rut only lasts three days.

They take the rest of the week off anyway because, as Stiles tells Peter, work life balance is important. Also, Stiles has strained a muscle in his thigh, and he needs Peter to coddle him.

Peter doesn’t mind.

* * *

Stiles is desperate for the break over the Christmas holidays, scrambling to get his assignments finished and submitted so he can finally, as he puts it, take a breath, and Peter can relate. He’s also snowed under - there’s been a frenzy of last-minute appointments and meetings with concerned citizens over council issues that simply _must_ be dealt with before Christmas, all of them trivial. Peter handles them all with a politician’s smile and a warm assurance that yes, they certainly will look into the parking over near the school, or the lack of street lamps in their area, or the noise from the nightclub, and sends them all on their way with a package of Christmas cookies and the assurance that they’ve been heard.

Then he goes home to Stiles and thunks his head down on the kitchen table, grumbling about people who have no life and too much time on their hands. Stiles, in turn, will wave a notepad and grouse about asshole lecturers who expect him to talk about the symbolism of secondary gender roles in a book from 1962, do they not know there have been books published since then that address this so much better? Then they’ll look at each other, and one or the other of them will go and get two beers out of the fridge, and they’ll tell each other that people are idiots, and that the break can’t come soon enough.

They’re invited over to Deuc and Jeremy’s for Christmas Eve. They’re happy to accept the invitation. Christmas day will be spent at the Hales, and Peter knows it will be a madhouse, so a quiet evening with good friends before the chaos of a family Christmas sounds just about perfect. Stiles has gotten over his embarrassment around Deuc. The first few times they met up he went an adorable shade of pink and seemed to find the floor endlessly fascinating, but none of them mentioned the knot-shaped elephant in the room, and once Stiles realized they weren’t actually going to talk about him and Peter’s embarrassing mis-step, he relaxed. Now, it’s not uncommon for him and Jeremy to sit together snickering while casting knowing glances at Peter and Deuc. Peter’s almost certain they’re being mocked. Deuc assures him they’re better off not knowing.

They arrive late in the afternoon, later than Peter had planned because Stiles was asleep, still worn out from the all-nighter he pulled earlier in the week studying for his final exam, and Peter didn’t quite have the heart to wake him. When Stiles did wake, it took two coffees and a shower to get him functional. Deuc doesn’t seem to mind though, smiling widely when he opens the door and taking turns embracing them both, Jeremy following his lead.

They get inside and settle around the kitchen table. Stiles puts down the cheese platter he’s brought to share. Jeremy takes one look, his hand flies up to his mouth, and he bolts. Stiles stares after him, non-plussed. “It’s the Stilton,” Deuc says smoothly. “It makes him nauseous. He’s always been sensitive to it.”

“I didn’t know. I’m so sorry!” Peter watches as Stiles picks up the offending cheese, wraps it in paper towels, and takes it outside to the trash. While he’s gone, Peter turns to Deuc and raises an eyebrow. Deuc gives tiny nod, his face splitting into a grin, but he mimes zipping his lip and Peter nods back, message received and understood.

Stiles and Jeremy arrive back at about the same time, Jeremy distinctly pale but no longer green. He wraps an arm around Deucalion’s waist and says, “Well, I guess we might as well tell them after that,” and Deuc nods.

“Would you like to do the honors darling?”

Jeremy’s hand rubs at his belly, but he doesn’t get a word out before Stiles is pointing and asking, “Are you telling us – are you? Really?”

Jeremy nods. The color’s come back into his face, and he looks the tiniest bit smug.

Stiles grins madly. “I didn’t even know you were trying!”

Deuc’s smile widens “We weren’t, not exactly.”

Jeremy smirks. “But also, we were. I went off the shots, and we relied on more traditional methods of protection. And let’s just say that sometimes suggestions are made in the heat of the moment, and sometimes people get a little carried away. Things happen.”

Deuc drops a kiss on the top of Jeremy’s head. “If I recall darling, it was all your idea. I merely did as I was told,” he pauses and gives a truly wicked grin, before adding, “repeatedly and enthusiastically.” Jeremy snickers and elbows him in the side.

Peter can’t help smiling as well. Deuc had come back from his last rut leave looking particularly ragged – now Peter knows why. He’s happy for his friend though, knows it’s something he’s wanted - something Peter wants too, one day. 

The conversation naturally turns to all things baby, Jeremy bemoaning the way he can’t so much as_ look_ at a dairy product without his stomach betraying him. He doesn’t look that upset though, and his hand keeps straying to his still-flat belly, as does Deuc’s gaze. It’s pleasant enough company, but Peter’s distracted when he overhears Stiles and Jeremy talking quietly, Stiles asking in an undertone, ”So what, you decided _mid-heat?_’

Jeremy replies with something Peter can’t hear, and Stiles shakes his head. “I don’t think I could ever do that.”

Peter’s heart sinks as it hits him that this the one conversation they’ve never had, but it’s one that they should have. He knows Stiles doesn’t want children _now_, but it never occurred to Peter to ask if he wanted them at all. He just assumed that in a few years, when they were settled, he’d suggest it and Stiles would agree.

Maybe that’s not the case.

He makes it through the rest of the evening, nodding and smiling in the right places, but he’s on autopilot. He wants to ask Stiles here and now, demand to know, but he’s not going to spoil Deucalion and Jeremy’s joy at sharing their news.

It’s not a late night, with Jeremy yawning early on and admitting he’s permanently tired these days. Peter takes the opportunity, makes their excuses. The drive home’s silent, both of them lost in thought. Peter parks the car and when they go inside, Stiles catches his wrist and leads him to the kitchen table. He pushes Peter into a chair and sits opposite him. “We need to talk.”

Really, Peter should have expected it – of course Stiles would be thinking about this as well. He steels himself for the declaration that Stiles doesn’t want to be a parent. He reminds himself he’s lucky to even have this, that to ask for more is just selfish. He takes a deep breath and nods.

Stiles reaches across the table and grabs one of Peter’s hands, holds it tight. “I’m not ready for babies, and –“ He falters. Peter nods encouragingly, even though he'd be happy if Stiles would never finish that particular sentence. Stiles swallows, starts again. “I want you to promise me something.”

“What, sweetheart?” Peter knows, of course. Stiles wants him to promise he’ll never force him to bear a child, that he’ll never -

“Promise me that when we do decide to have kids, it won’t be in the middle of a freakin’ heat?”

Peter pulls back, blinks. “What?”

Stiles bites his lip. “Jeremy said they ditched all Deuc’s condoms mid-heat, and I don’t ever want to make a decision that important when I’m out of my mind with lust, okay?”

“But – you do want children?” Peter holds his breath.

Stiles shrugs. “Not for a few years, but sure. After I graduate. But here’s what I want you to promise me. I want us to talk about it, decide when we’re in our right mind. I don’t want it to happen because I’m begging you to fill me up and breed me when I’m knot-drunk and fucked out, and you decided to take me seriously.”

The lead weight in Peter’s stomach dissolves, and he smiles so widely his face hurts. “I promise. We’ll decide – no, you’ll decide, and let me know. I won’t lie, I’d like to be a father before I turn forty, but it’s your call.”

Stiles nods. “Four years? I’d be okay with that. But there’s another thing.”

“Anything, sweet boy.” Peter’s floating on air right now. If Stiles asked for the moon, he could just scoop it right up as he sailed on by.

“I don’t want the shot next time. The contraceptive, definitely. But not the suppressant. I want to share a heat with you.” Stiles squirms in his seat as though embarrassed, but he presses on. “You go into rut anyway, so I still need the week off, and after talking to Jeremy, it sounds like I might be missing all the fun. Apparently heat sex is _wild_, and now I kinda wanna try it.”

Stiles’s earlier request suddenly makes much more sense. “So,” Peter says slowly, ”you want to have a proper heat, but you don’t want me to believe anything you say while you’re _in_ heat regarding starting a family?”

Stiles’s expression brightens. “Exactly!”

Peter runs a hand through his hair. “You have my word.” He huffs out a relieved laugh. “And here I was thinking you were going to tell me you didn’t want children at all.”

Stile’s eyebrows raise in surprise. “Why would you think that?”

Peter gives him a wry smile. “Because I’m an idiot, and I assumed the worst?”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “I’m pretty sure I would have mentioned a little thing like, oh, _never wanting children_ before I mated you.” He swings out of his chair and drapes himself across Peter’s lap, arms wrapped around his back as he rests their foreheads together. “I promise, Peter. I want your babies,“ he murmurs. "Not quite yet, but I _do_ want them. Lots of them.”

Peter burrows his face in the crook of Stiles’s neck, taking in the warmth and scent of his mate, the knowledge that yes, he'll get to have this. The words spill out unbidden, are breathed out against Stiles’s skin - shy, secret. “Did you know that I love you?”

Stiles freezes in his hold, and then there’s a hand tilting Peter’s chin up, whiskey eyes gazing into his, as Stiles whispers, “Pretty sure I love you, too.”

They stay like that, all soft kisses and murmured endearments, and Peter’s never been as content as he is right now. He thinks back to the first time they met at the mixer, and pulls away long enough to ask, “Does this mean you've found love’s young dream after all, sweetheart?”

Stiles tilts his head, considering, before breaking into a smile. “You know, I think I have.”


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... oops? My fingers slipped?

Peter's 39th birthday falls on a Saturday, and while they're still naked in bed, Stiles hands Peter his present. It's a flat box, and inside is a doctor's bill. When Peter reads it, it's for a reversal of the contraceptive shot, dated two weeks back.

He looks up, confused, to see Stiles watching him carefully. "It takes two weeks to work fully, so it should have kicked in yesterday. I know my heat's not due yet, but the doctor said there's no reason I can't catch outside of it." Peter stares, silent, and Stiles bites his lip before adding, "If you don't want to yet it's fine, we can just use -"

His back hits the bed with a _whump_ when Peter straddles him and pushes him down, eyes suspiciously damp as he demands, "You're sure?"

Stiles places warm hands on Peter's hips, holding him there. "Absolutely. Put a baby in me, Alpha."

Peter inhales deeply, then lets out a shaky breath. "Oh, sweetheart. You have _no idea_ how much I want this. I'm going to knot you, and I'm not going to stop till I breed you, however long that takes."

Stiles grins. "Good thing I told the office you're out all next week, then. Said I needed you for _'omega things'_, and they didn't ask any more questions."

Peter laughs and shakes his head fondly. "Are our children going to be as devious as you, I wonder?"

Stiles shrugs. "Probably. Let's get to making 'em, and find out."

* * *

By the time he's three, it's obvious that Alexander John Hale is absolutely every bit as devious as both his parents.

Peter couldn't be prouder.

**Author's Note:**

> Just a few notes on how things work in this 'verse.
> 
> Stiles doesn't need to mate to get through his heat - it's more to follow the societal and legal requirements. Omegas are regarded in the same light as fifties housewives - expected to be good little stay-at-home partners, looking after their alpha and having children. They aren't considered responsible enough to work,study, be out alone at night, or hold bank accounts without an alpha to supervise them, and need someone to give permission. Birth control is out of the question for a single omega.
> 
> An omega who's unmated after twenty basically gives up any hope of independent living until they find a mate, as well as getting major side-eye. Even once they're mated, they're at the mercy of their alpha's whims as to what they can do.
> 
> Biologically - once they've been physically claimed, their scent changes to clearly mark them as off limits to any other alpha.  
Heats are twice a year for omegas, ruts are something that are usually triggered in response to an omega's heat. If an alpha isn't partnered, they don't rut.


End file.
